


In The Next Room

by AsteraceaeBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Moriarty saw the others, but he didn't see you – the invisible girl. When in fact, you are quite palpable. And intrinsic to the success of all I have planned." Post-Reichenbach Sherlolly</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic that is completed, but I will be posting one chapter a day on this site at the request of Nocturnias (cheers!). Hope you all like it!

The problem with faking one's own elaborate death was the insufferable need to lie around and wait for things to happen. The grandiosity of the plan had been truly risky and the potential for things to go horribly wrong was high. He had not predicted Moriarty's gruesome end. The fact that he had managed to land fairly unscathed in the rubbish truck was mostly dumb luck, although the act had been planned quite carefully. At least, he was reasonably certain he was unscathed. A slight adjustment of his prone position on the metal slab did warrant a bit of a grimace at the soreness settling into his muscles. It had not been a short fall, after all, and he had yet to be inspected by anyone, whisked straight away as he was by his hired entourage of "medical staff" to the morgue of St. Barts.

Another moment that had almost gone drastically wrong – they were supposed to keep John away from his body. He could only hope that in the mayhem John had not felt a strong pulse, or any pulse at all, in the few seconds he managed to reach him.

Poor John.

He let out an exasperated sign against the white sheet covering his face, thinking Molly was taking far too long to come rescue him from his current state. They had agreed some time would need to pass before she was summoned to autopsy. It wouldn't look right if he was simply pronounced dead without an attempt at life saving procedures.

As if on cue, he heard the morgue door whoosh open and the sound of her sensible heels clipped across the floor.

"Any more time, Molly Hooper, and you would truly have had to stuff me into one of your crypts with cause of death filled in as 'BOREDOM.'"

The heels stopped short next to his gurney. A moment passed before the sheet was ripped unceremoniously from his body and crumpled off the far end of the gurney.

"Sherlock, honestly," Molly chided him in as angry a manner as she could muster. "You are extraordinarily lucky to be alive, that we got away with this at all! And all you can do is resort to being a nasty git."

"Yes, well, a five story fall can do that to a fellow," he grumbled as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the metal. Molly took one look at the dried blood coating the majority of his face and clothes and turned to busy herself with soaking towels in the sink to remedy the mess. Even if it wasn't his, it was still a disturbing sight to behold. Sherlock took the opportunity to begin removing his ruined jacket and shirt.

"You are damn lucky, you know that, don't you Sherlock?" Molly rambled as she drenched another towel, too unnerved by the day's events to bother watching her language as she usually did. "And we're not even done yet. Forging your emergency records and the autopsy report alone have sent me running for a refill on anxiety medication-"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"You take anxiety medication?" he asked, somewhat surprised.

"Of course I do…"

Her voice trailed off as she turned in time to see Sherlock sliding his shirt off his toned shoulders. _Well then…_

Despite his general inability to read social situations, it took very little effort for Sherlock to interpret the look on the pathologist's face. Dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, lips parted in surprise. _Or anticipation_ , he mused. He couldn't stop the smirk from reaching his lips.

"See something you like, Molly?" his rich baritone filled the silence.

Molly forced herself back into motion, desperately embarrassed at the fluttering of her heart. She practically tripped over herself setting the prepped towels on the gurney next to Sherlock, his eyes locked onto her every movement. _For Heaven's sake, Molly, he's just faked his own bloody death. You had to restrain his best friend at the door and send him home in hysterics not twenty minutes ago. This is not the time, really, really not the time…_

"What are you going to do now?" she changed the topic as she handed him a towel to clean off and went about taking care of the bits he couldn't reach.

"Convince Mycroft to let you have the body."

Molly's brow scrunched, unable to follow.

"Sorry, the body?" she hesitated. "Your body?... I figured we had that bit all worked out already."

"Not _my_ body," Sherlock droned. "Moriarty's. Mycroft's henchmen are sure to have scooped it up by now."

He looked up when he realized Molly had not responded and took note of the way she was wringing the bloodied towel in her hands, her mouth set in a tense line. Anxiety indeed. He wondered how he had not noticed before.

"He's dead."

More of a statement than a question.

"He is."

"How?"

"Molly, it makes no sense for you to be sad about the situation. You found out what he was a long while ago. You admitted yourself he was of no interest to you."

"What makes you think I'm sad," she flashed her doe brown eyes at his blue ones. "Maybe I think he got what he deserved. Having one's emotions toyed with and being used can tend to leave a sour feeling. Maybe I'm glad it ended this way."

Sherlock's gaze bore into her, analyzing as he always did. He saw the way her jaw was set, her lips were still and unwavering. Her eyes were firm, but there was a glint to them, a shimmer that gave her away.

"No, you're not," he told her matter of fact. "Maybe you were wounded, but it was still a life and one which was intricately tied to your own, however briefly. You, Molly Hooper, would never be glad to see someone die."

Her frown increased, mostly in an effort to hold back the tears that were now threatening to make an appearance. She felt officially overwhelmed by all that had happened in just a few short hours. She dropped her eyes from his and lifted her hand to continue to dab at the blood dried at the nape of his neck. To her relief, he remained silent and moved on to inspecting the bruises forming along the right side of his torso and arm, blossoming evidence of his daring stunt.

"He shot himself," he offered after several minutes quiet. He felt her hands still momentarily.

"I'm glad it wasn't you," came the whispered reply.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smirk. All that had happened and she was simply glad he wasn't a murderer today.

They were fairly quiet as Molly inspected his injuries, determining that none of them needed any more than a cold compress and a bandage or two. She reminded him almost absent-mindedly of how lucky he was several times until he finally sighed and reminded her that repetition was tedious. Soon enough, he was patched and into the clothes Molly had agreed to bring him, his own bound in a rubbish bag to be cleaned and stowed by her at a convenient time. She stood before him with hands clasped in front of her, an intent look on her face as she watched him adjust his collar.

"You want me to autopsy him, don't you?" she asked, though she was certain of the answer.

"It would be the most convenient situation, yes," he replied. "Though it may not be the most pleasant scenario for you."

"Not as unpleasant as telling John that you're…"

"Dead," he filled in the word for her, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. "You might as well get used to saying it, the only person you won't have to pretend for is Mycroft."

Molly stared at him. She shouldn't be bewildered by his behavior after all this time. She really should know that his best intention was never to spare feelings or be sympathetic, yet it never ceased to surprise her.

"Do you even care at all?" she demanded, her face scrunching up in disbelief. "He's going to be heartbroken. Mrs. Hudson, John – they'll have to plan your funeral and grieve and cry over you. And I'll have to go along with it all, knowing full well that you're fine and enjoying afternoon tea. Do I… do they matter at all to you?"

Sherlock took his time with the last cuff, making deliberate movements of perfection.

"Of course they matter," he replied, his voice low and even. "They matter a great deal. It's precisely because they matter that all of this is necessary. And you, Molly."  He looked up at her and held her eyes, approaching her slowly.  "You are the person who is going to hold it all together. Because Moriarty saw the others, but he didn't see you – the invisible girl. When in fact, you are quite palpable. And intrinsic to the success of all I have planned."

Molly swallowed hard.

"What exactly do you have planned?" she queried, embarrassed by the small squeak in her voice. Sherlock broke her gaze and looked beyond her.

"At the moment, a visit to my darling big brother," he said, giving a tight smile. Molly nodded her understanding.

"I should go to Baker Street, then," she offered. She looked up at him. "You should wear a hat or something, to go out. You stand out too much. I mean, rather, your appearance is, umm… you attract attention."

For the first time, the corner of Sherlock's mouth piqued in genuine amusement and interest. Molly found herself fighting back a smile.

"Oh shut up," she muttered, forcing her resolve for the act she was about to perform at 221B. No time to act like a mushy schoolgirl. She turned on her heel and marched firmly away from Sherlock. "And don't bother following just to satiate your curiosity about them, it would be too risky," she called over her shoulder.

"I wasn't - "

"Yes, you were," she cut him off as she swung the door shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly managed to hail a cab to Baker Street, a luxury she seldom allowed herself. She wanted the privacy to think without the energy of dozens of strangers milling about her. The buildings of London zipped by as she pondered how much more was required of her during this charade. She knew Sherlock would use her as long as he could, as long as she was useful to him. And she, being the daft idiot that she tended to be around him, would go right along with it.

In a way, she had begun to find herself getting over him in recent days. He may have used some lovely words today, but she knew the truth – she didn't count. Not in the way that the others did. He even came right out and said that was the reason Moriarty missed her as a target. What kind of life was that, to live knowing you didn't count? The torch would always be burning for Sherlock Holmes, though, no matter how much her head tried to convince her to move right along.

As the cabbie neared the corner for 221B, Molly took note of a tall, familiar figure standing in the path of the car, an umbrella casually tucked under one arm and a modern bowler held in the other.

"Miss?" the cabbie asked her, not sure what to do.

"Could you stop here, please?" she told him, sliding a hand along the handle as the cab rolled to a stop. "It's alright, he's an acquaintance."

She quickly paid the man and hopped out of the cab, shrugging her satchel higher onto her shoulder as she made her way over to Mycroft.

"No doubt my brother has been left to his own devices, already," he drawled. He seemed very unfazed by the fact that Sherlock had just plunged five stories off a building and survived.

"He's looking for you, actually," Molly informed him. She glanced toward the corner. "Has anyone seen you here?"

"No, I should think not," he replied casually. "But I'll keep this brief. Miss Hooper, Sherlock can manage to lead people into dangerous situations. Ones they would never dream of finding themselves in otherwise, simply because of some ardent fascination with his genius or 'talent.' The fact that he is currently a free agent of sorts makes him particularly volatile."

"I think I understand what you're trying to tell me," she said meekly.

"Not the half of it. To the world, Sherlock Holmes is dead. Disgraced. And at this point there is only so much I can do to help him. There may come a time, quite soon, that I will not be able to interfere. Do you follow?"

Molly merely nodded.

"I'll do my best. He is my brother, after all," Mycroft placed the bowler atop his head and tipped it toward her. "Good evening, Miss Hooper."

He strode passed Molly and she turned to watch him walk towards a nondescript black town car. Pausing, he turned back to her with what she could only describe as a worried look.

"Do look after him," he instructed her. "He needs someone to do so. He always needs a lifeline to come back to."

She jumped a little as her phone vibrated once in her pocket. Mycroft gave her a knowing look.

"And it appears you're it, for the time being."

With that, Mycroft disappeared into the car and was whisked away.

"Was I just put in charge of babysitting Sherlock Holmes?" she muttered to herself. _Brilliant_. Remembering why she was there, she ignored the phone and made her way to the door of the flat, taking a deep breath before knocking. A distraught Mrs. Hudson opened the door. Molly took one look at her tear-stained face and nearly lost her resolve. _Oh God, how am I going to do this?_

"Oh dear, Molly!" Mrs. Hudson nearly wailed, taking her by the arm and pulling her in off the street. "He's upstairs. I've done all I could think of – cup of tea, whiskey, biscuits, help yourself to any of it. Come, please come on up."

Molly could feel tears stinging her eyes from the mere fact of being in this place, watching this poor woman wipe away tears and prattle on about comfort food for her and John. It was so unfair to do to them. She could only hope that Sherlock knew what he was doing by not telling them.

Following Mrs. Hudson into the flat, she immediately saw John. Hunched over in Sherlock's chair, his head sunk into his hands, surrounded by trays of sweets and liquor. Her heart instantly broke for him and she felt the first few tears begin to spill over. She made her way over to him, gently kneeling in front of him and tentatively reaching out to touch his wrist. John slowly looked up into her face, the horrors of the day's events cemented in his features.

"Molly," he breathed. "Please tell me it's not true. Tell me it's one of his games."

Her lip began to quiver at his words, guilt wracking her body and allowing her to pull off the most elaborate lie of her life. All she could do was shake her head, shattering his hope. She heard another wail from Mrs. Hudson and watched John's face contort in misery. Instinctively, she reached out and cradled his body as he fell into her comforting arms. She wept with them, ignoring the incessant buzzing of her phone in her pocket, knowing full well the texts from the world's only consulting detective could wait another five minutes while his friends grieved.

* * *

"I need Moriarty's body."

He didn't even bother to open his eyes from his prone position on one of the nicer couches in England as he heard Mycroft's study door open. He pointedly ignored the sigh and slamming door in response.

"I agreed to let you go through with this nonsense, Sherlock, nothing more."

"There shouldn't have _been_ anything more, Mycroft," he said, annoyed. "Sadly, there is now a body, a very important one, that needs looking at."

Mycroft sauntered over to the liquor tray of his study, pulling a tumbler from its resting place and uncorking the crystal of Scotch.

"I can only assume you want that poor girl to do the honors," he sighed as he poured himself a generous helping.

"Anyone else would be out of the question," Sherlock replied, sitting up to fix his brother with a tired look, draping his arms along the back of the couch. "Obviously. Not to mention she's the only one who could be properly trusted with the task."

Mycroft swirled the amber liquid in his glass, considering.

"I'll give you one hour in the lab," he conceded, sipping at the soothing liquid. "I'll send a car 'round for her at eight."

Sherlock bounded up from the couch, eager to be out of his brother's presence. He swooped up the hunter green rain slicker and matching hat he had snatched from the morgue locker room and donned them quickly. Mycroft gaze him a quizzical stare.

"What on earth are you wearing?"

"Molly said I was too dashing to be in public without a disguise. No doubt fearful that I may be ripped apart by a mob of hormonal women."

* * *

Molly emerged from 221B a near shaking mess.

"Never again, Sherlock Holmes, never again," she mumbled under her breath as she walked at a fast clip to the corner of the block, reaching into her pocket and exerting a death grip on the phone as though that alone could substitute for wringing his own neck. "The next time you plan on faking your death you can bloody well do the dirty work yourself. So you jumped off a building… I'd rather jump off a building than do _that_ ever, ever again…"

The moment she rounded the corner, out of site of the flat, she pulled the phone from her pocket and slid it open. Twelve new messages.

_New phone, untraceable, don't show anyone SH_

_Tell Mycroft to stop bothering you and get home already SH_

_The black box from the desk – nick it SH_

_Laptop too SH_

_Ignore laptop, John will notice SH_

Molly sighed and skipped down several messages.

_Why is the inside of the pocket on this slicker all jammy? SH_

_Car, eight o'clock SH_

Unbelievable. She was going to have to learn to speak Sherlock. For the longest time all she wanted was for the man to talk to her and now she was realizing there was an interesting side effect to being the important piece in his puzzle. She had no idea what that last message meant exactly, but she assumed it was safe for her to go home and grab a bite of dinner before her next assignment.

She had only just finished putting the rest of her Chinese take-out in the fridge when she heard her phone chirp again. Quickly wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she reached for the phone and read the message.

_Waiting outside_

Gathering her things, she headed out the door and down the few steps to the street, only assuming the black car waiting at the curb was for her. She stepped tentatively up to the driver's window and motioned for the driver to roll the window down. He obliged.

"Erm, sorry, just checking… who sent the car?"

"Mr. Holmes, miss. I can call 'im if you like, verify."

"No, no, just checking, like I said," Molly assured him, letting herself into the backseat.

In no time they were at a government building she had probably passed a thousand times on her way through the city but had never looked at twice. A security guard met the car and she was led through a side entrance and down a stairwell to a basement facility. The first room they walked through was a pristine lab – she would have access to any amount of equipment she could ever need, she could see that clearly enough. A set of double doors let to an autopsy room. A single table was occupied, white sheet draped carefully over the body. Her breath caught slightly in her throat. She hated to admit Sherlock was somewhat right. This man had been a homicidal maniac, but for a few lovely dates he had been the man who opened doors for her, pulled out her chair, chatted with her about books and music, kissed her…

"You've got an hour, miss," the guard told her. "Be down to fetch you then. Intercom is on the wall just there if you need anything."

"W-what?" Molly looked at him. "Is there, um, no one else coming?"

"Who else would there be?"

Molly looked down, disappointed.

"Nothing, nevermind," she shook her head, giving the guard a small smile. "I'll be just fine."

He tipped his hat at her and left the room. Molly looked around, realizing this would no doubt be her lot. She placed her things near the door and ceremoniously donned her spare lab coat she had been fortunate enough to have at hand. Her hands worked at the worn smooth buttons, focusing her mind to the task at hand and trying not to feel like she'd been stood up. Once dressed with gloves on, she rounded on the body in the middle of the room. She forced her mind blank of memories.

"Time to do what you were trained to do," she told herself. "Be a scientist."

* * *

She was exhausted by the time she got home. Molly was used to pulling long hours, but helping fake a death and autopsying an ex-boyfriend did add a bit of stress to the day. Heading straight for the kitchen, she swiped a wine glass from her cupboard and popped open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. The wine had barely touched her lips when there was a knock at her door. She closed her eyes in frustration.

"No, no, no…" she muttered as she crossed the room to open the door. Her eyes widened as she came face to face with Sherlock leaning against her door frame, rain slicker draped across an arm and looking appropriately disheveled. "Oh! Sherlock, w-what are doing here?"

"I need a place to stay," he said, giving her a charming smile.


	3. Chapter 3

"A place… well, I'm not sure if," Molly stammered, her mind flooding with every sordid fantasy she'd ever had about Sherlock Holmes in her home. She could feel her face flushing furiously. "The thing is, I don't know if it would suit you."

"Course it would suit me, any place will suit for the moment," he said casually, pushing past her and into the small entry, making a sharp right through the archway into her place. He stopped short and looked around, mind working like lightening. Not an apartment. Townhome, expensive, and old. Not overdoing it on square meters, but the design was open and comfortable. Architecture dating to the 1940's though most of the cabinets and appliances were updated. Modern open kitchen with island slightly to his left, country dining table just in front, open through to a living area with overly fluffy chairs and couch and a bay window overlooking the street. It was slightly disheveled, but charming. Fireplace on one wall, overcrowded bookshelves lining the other. He noted the additional stacks of books on the floor, several open on the coffee table. No sign of the cat just yet. Very small flat screen TV tucked in a corner and gathering dust. A glance to his left showed a winding stair leading to a second level and a small hall passing under the stairs to a doorway with a green curtain draped across, no doubt an office of some sort. "Well, Molly… pathology must pay well."

Her blush deepened.

"It was my parents' place, before… anyway, it was bought and paid for and I had just begun working at the hospital when my mum moved away and she always said it would be a shame to lose the place-"

Sherlock fixed her with a look that told her she was rambling.

"Right, sorry," she said, making her way to the kitchen and beginning to fuss with the few items left out on the counter. "Can I make you some tea? Or, are you hungry at all? No, of course not, you don't eat when you're working…"

"Well remembered," Sherlock told her as he strode into the living area and settled himself in the chair that looked less like a marshmallow and appeared less favored by the cat. "In fact, what I would prefer are the details of the autopsy you've just performed."

"Sure," Molly nodded, abandoning the cups she was holding and rushing over to her satchel to retrieve her notes. She tucked herself into the chair opposite Sherlock and spread her notes on her lap. Her brow furrowed as she reviewed her findings.

"Out loud, Molly," Sherlock spoke with impatience. She glanced up at him with a serious look.

"It's just very odd and very difficult to say," she began. "The thing is… there is no Jim Moriarty. No record at all. And when I began to analyze tissue and fingerprints and all that I found out why. Everything came up with the same match in the system: Richard Brook. At first I couldn't quite believe it, but when I tracked down his medical records there was no doubt. A simple x-ray confirmed a broken tibia at the age of ten. Dental records were an exact match. Even blood type: B negative."

"Extremely rare."

"Extremely."

Sherlock began to smile.

"Oh, he was good. He was very, very good, but I was _better_!" he shouted and leapt from the chair, startling Molly. He began to pace about the room, ruffling his hands through his hair. "All along, he wanted to be found out. He _wanted_ to be revealed, that was the game to him. It was the key to my undoing. He knew what it would look like to the world. Little did he know it would be my greatest asset. That game with Kitty Riley was his worst mistake."

"Kitty Riley… I don't follow," Molly interjected. She shrank back as Sherlock crossed the room towards her at an alarming rate, eyes wild with excitement.

"Don't you see what's just been confirmed for us? If he had never revealed himself, if he had gone to his grave letting me think he was just Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind for hire, the doors would have been shut. But now he's more than that, so much more, and he's left me a _treasure trove_ to play with!" he returned to pacing. "He thought I hadn't figured it all out. He truly thought I was inferior."

"You…you played him," Molly ventured. "You knew all along he would die and you could expose him."

"What? No, his death was completely unexpected, although a lucky one as it turns out," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at her and plopped down onto the couch. "His death makes his life a mystery begging to be unraveled. It really is too bad he won't be around to see me do it. John, hand me a laptop."

Molly felt her stomach clench at his words and stared at his outstretched hand, waiting for the device.

"Molly," she said, annoyed at the tremor in her voice. He glanced over at her.

"What?"

"My name is Molly, Sherlock, not John," she stood up and dumped her report on the coffee table. "And until you can learn to tell the difference you can very well fetch your own laptop."

She stormed away from him and towards the stair, whirling around momentarily to glare at him.

"He's a wreck, by the way, since you didn't ask," she informed him. "He and Mrs. Hudson."

She turned again and forcefully made her way up the stairs. He heard her heavy footsteps along the hall and a door slam shut. He peered at the ceiling in bewilderment.

"Don't see what there is to fuss about. Not as though I would have expected anything different," he muttered as he leaned forward and grabbed the laptop, flipping it open. He was greeted with a login page. "Now then, _Molly_ , let's see if you're as predictable as some others."

He began typing his own name, hitting enter and leaning back into the couch. The page refreshed and he was taunted by red words splashed across the screen: _Login failed. Password incorrect_. He frowned and quickly began formulating all possible combinations and variations he could think of.

* * *

Moonlight streaming through the curtains would have been a lovely thing to blame lack of sleep on. The moon had proved a nice distraction for a while as she tracked its movement across the night sky. Sadly, it had moved beyond her line of sight half hour ago. She let out a deep sigh and tossed away from the window, disturbing poor Toby for the tenth time. He gave her a sour look and jumped off the bed, tail swishing in the air as he settled on the rocking chair in the corner instead.

"Can't even get the cat to cuddle with me now," she moped. She glanced at the clock. Half past one. She hadn't heard a noise from downstairs in over an hour and hoped it was safe to pop down for a quick cup of chamomile tea to help sooth her mind. It would be easy enough to nab the electric teapot and a cup to bring upstairs without waking him if he had fallen asleep on the couch. With better luck, he had made his way to the spare room and she could move about more freely. She tossed back the blankets and padded across the room, tossing a glare at Toby. "Wanker."

He simply blinked at her.

She grabbed her robe and slipped quietly out the door and down the stairs. The lights had mostly been dimmed with the sole light coming from a dimmer under the kitchen cupboards and the glow of her laptop in the living room. Sherlock was very much awake, her computer set on the coffee table in front of him. He was leaning against the back of the couch, fingers steepled and touching his lips, brow drawn in concentration.

Molly hesitated at the foot of the stairs. After a few moments, her desire for a calming drink overcame her desire to avoid interaction. She walked towards the kitchen, glancing at him as she started up the burner and put the kettle on. Her proper upbringing began to nag at her.

"Cup of tea?" she offered before she could think twice. No reply. She bit her lip and looked down. "Okay then."

"I need. Your password."

She looked over again. He had been sitting down here all this time trying to get into her laptop. She didn't know whether to be amused or feel sorry for him. Abandoning her tea, she made her way over to the coffee table and knelt down next to him, pulling the laptop closer. She entered her password, not caring that he was watching what she typed.

"Three October two thousand nine," he said. "A date."

"Yup," she replied, pulling her hands into her lap. She turned her head and looked up at him when he didn't respond. His eyes were locked on her, piercing, his expression unreadable. As usual, she began to grow nervous under his gaze. She gave a shy smile. "Anyway. Kettle's starting to boil."

The ceramic tea cup and saucer rattled too loudly in the quiet room as she prepped her tea and poured hot water over the tea bag. She could feel the burn of his eyes as she fumbled to add sugar to her cup, thankful when her task was over and she was able to make a quick getaway to the stairs.

"Goodnight, Molly."

She glanced over her shoulder. He had returned his focus to the laptop.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

Molly's alarm clock went off far too early for her liking. She was not particularly used to long sleepless nights with a man she had been pining after for far too long a stone's throw away. She showered and dressed quickly, bothering only with a hint of mascara and lip gloss. As her bedroom was at the front of the building, she padded barefoot past the guest room with shoes in hand and noted that the door was firmly shut. She had had a feeling he would find his way if he was tired enough.

She was just tucking into her breakfast when she heard footsteps descending the stairs. Her heart rushed for a moment as she considered the state of dress she might be about to witness from Sherlock – he had been known to consider clothing optional, after all. It had been hard not to hear about the incident at the palace. Fortunately for the health of her late night fantasies, he had donned his wrinkled clothes from the previous day.

"I'll need a change of clothes," he announced, tousling his hair into a slightly less ragged state.

"Shall I go shopping for you?" she offered brightly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her as he pulled out the chair across from her and settled at the table.

"Don't appear too eager to slip into domesticities, Molly, you could at least pretend it's an inconvenience to run errands for me," he chided her. He reached for the teapot she had placed out and helped himself. "Though it would make more sense than raiding Baker Street, so yes, a shop would be ideal."

Molly pulled her lips tight and glanced at the extra plate she had left warming on the counter, suddenly regretting her decisions as she had made her breakfast. Sherlock easily followed her gaze and rolled his eyes.

"I thought you had managed to remember I don't eat-"

"While you're working, yes," Molly jumped up from her seat and made for the plate, intending to add it to the rubbish pile.

"Stop," Sherlock held out a hand, seeming to find his manners. He stood and walked over to her, taking the plate from her hands. "I'd hate to see you waste your groceries."

He looked down to see what she had prepared. Poached egg on toast, bit of beans, a few slices of fried tomato, and sausage. Nearly identical to the meal Mrs. Hudson had been preparing for him for years. He met her eyes, allowing his gaze to soften.

"Thank you," he told her. She instantly brightened.

"I don't cook much, but what I can I cook well," she smiled at him. He gave her his trademark half smile in response.

They ate in relative silence until it was time for Molly to leave for the hospital. As she bundled up in her coat, she peered at him as he settled back onto the couch and powered up her laptop.

"What do you plan to do today?" she asked, trying not to pry too much.

"Research," he said simply.

She knew he would not elaborate, not yet.

"Okay, then," she said, shouldering her satchel and heading out the door. She tried not to be hurt by his behavior, attempting to put it all in perspective of what he'd gone through these last few days. It was selfish, really. There were people in his life who were genuinely hurting right now and she was the lucky one who knew he was all right. It was not right for her to be fussing about his exclusion of her from his plans. What had she expected? That he would miraculously open up and they would share their deepest secrets and feelings while eating a tub of chocolate ice cream? It was still Sherlock, after all. Just because she thought things had been changing between them recently… Still, it would have been nice to receive a thank you.

* * *

Sherlock waited until he was sure Molly was a good distance away before he jumped up from his position on the couch and wandered over to her bookshelves. He had done plenty of his own research last night and was waiting for a line from Mycroft to go ahead with his next move. The research he was planning on doing while Molly was gone had nothing to that.

He had garnered a good look at her books upon entering her place last night, but now he was able to really observe. A wide variety, that was sure. A large selection of fiction and mystery, both old and new, volumes of science textbooks and publications, histories, biographies – it was a veritable bookshop selection four meters wide and three meters tall. More interesting than her wide range of literary interests was the way she had shelved them. Whereas some might categorize them by subject or perhaps by author, she had placed them by favoritism. Books that had barely been of interest on the top shelves, susceptible to dust, books needed but not loved on the bottom, to preserve them from a potential fall or other damage, and books cherished or most useful right at torso level. No apparent order beyond that. She valued quality over organization.

Her kitchen spoke less about her. It was a room barely used, usually only to plate the meals she ordered or brought in. A cocktail glass rack suspended from the wall close to the table was her addition. The size indicated an expectation of company, but the groove worn solely on the wood where the first wine glass hung revealed most nights enjoying a glass alone.

Making his way up the stairs, he took in the family photos hung along the wall. Pictures of her parents and her as a child, enjoying a carousel ride, playing on the beach, and at her various graduations, with honors, of course. He had already managed to take a good look around the guest room and bath – nothing of interest there, other than the fact that it was probably her room as a child. She had obviously completely redecorated when she took over the home, painting the walls a soft cream with sage accents. A simple dresser and mirror and closet remained empty save for some hangers. The bed was newer and barely used, no doubt only when her mother was in town, done up with classic white sheets and soft brown duvet.

He passed the room with disinterest, honing in on the door at the end of the hall. It would be an invasion of her privacy. She had accepted him into her home, helped him with the most difficult act of his life, and had done it all without being her usual puppy-dog self. It was a fine way to repay her by snooping around in her room.

He grabbed the doorknob and swung the door open.

Lavender walls. Another bay window with white curtains drawn back. King sized bed (high expectations rarely met) with white sheets and cornflower blue comforter and pillow cases. White wood nightstands with trinkets and books piled on top. A simple wooden wardrobe and short chest of drawers set adorned the opposite wall of the bed. He walked over and glanced at the items occupying the top of the chest of drawers. Simple jewelry laid out in a dish (he noted the earrings from Christmas were not present, probably thrown out after the disastrous evening), a small notepad with pen, a few bottles of lotion and perfume (she tried overly hard to cover the smell of death and formaldehyde that was truthfully not clinging to her as much as she worried it was), and a few figurines of ballerinas and circus bears from her childhood. It was all very simple, but classic. Sweet.

He frowned in disappointment.

A glance down at the drawers tempted his fingers. It really would be snooping now…

On the third drawer, he stopped and smiled.

"Well, well, Molly... glad to see there's at least a bit of fun going on here for you."

His phone chirped, startling him. A glance down confirmed the sender – Mycroft. His exploration would have to be suspended. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

* * *

_Another long day_ , Molly sighed to herself as she entered her home. Too much lab analysis and an agonizing lunch with John making arrangements for Sherlock's "body" for the funeral in two days. He kept pressing her for details, desperate to look for a hole in her story about Sherlock's death. Even Sherlock would have been proud of her composure. She was not surprised to find her house empty and was truthfully glad to have a moment to herself. The leftover Chinese food called to her from the fridge and she gratefully pulled out the cartons and a plate. Just as she was scooping the remaining kung pao chicken onto her plate, she nearly dropped the entire meal as Sherlock crashed through her front door and stumbled into the room, holding his side with one arm and his entire body up with the other as he leaned against the wall, blood dripping from his lip and a sizeable gash in his forehead.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" Molly yelped, running to support him as he slumped against the wall. He cried out as her arm went around his waist to attempt to keep him from falling to the floor. She took one look at the gash and knew it would need butterfly bandaging at the least, stitches at the worst. She grimaced at the thought. Very carefully, she guided him to a chair at the table and settled him, immediately dashing to a utility drawer in the kitchen and retrieving her first aid kit.

"What happened?" she demanded as she pulled out gauze, bandages, medical tape, and an alcohol solution.

"Little misunderstanding," he winced.

"A _misunderstanding_?" she replied, baffled. She poured out the cleansing alcohol onto a cotton square. "What on earth could have been misunderstood enough to lead to _this_?"

She reached up to dab at the gash and was startled when he batted her hand away.

"No don't _clean_ it!" he cried, looking at her with frustration. " _Sample_ it!"

" _What_?"

" _Sample_ it! He hit me with the same bit of dinner plate I used to hit him, if we're lucky we can pull DNA samples," he said in a rush, rummaging through her kit. "Where the hell do you keep your swabs?"

"I – I have Q-tips in the bathroom," she offered, standing to fetch them.

"Ordinary bathroom Q-tips, is that all you've got?" he demanded, cutting her off before she had a chance to respond. "That won't be good enough, they won't be sterile, Molly! I need _laboratory swabs_. Didn't you get the black box from my flat?"

"No, I did not, as a matter of fact," she said, feeling her annoyance start to flare.

"That was essential," he threw his hands up in exasperation. "It had equipment in it _I need_."

"I'm sorry," she stood her ground. "I didn't think it would have looked right to stop holding John in one piece to answer your messages and excuse myself while I gathered _your_ things for no apparent reason to take them home with me. Think they might have figured that one out."

He knew she was right but it didn't stop him from throwing a solid tantrum about it.

"Do you have _anything_ useful in this building, anything that can be useful for something other than a night in with your girlfriends?"

"I have a microscope and slides," she informed him. "And the Q-tips. I can sample with those, Sherlock, I _know_ I can - "

"Fine, fetch them. I'm assuming since you can't even bother to keep something so simple as a DNA kit around I can give up the idea that this whole process can be done in the privacy of this home!"

Molly stared at him, shocked.

"I… I don't understand what you were expecting," she stammered. "I'm not a walking laboratory."

"Clearly, you'd be much more useful if you were," he barked. A few moments passed and he got no reply. He knew immediately he had pushed too hard. Chancing a look up at her, he saw her mouth pulled tight and her eyes beginning to shine with tears. It was not unusual for his actions to cause this reaction from her. He had managed many times in the past to drive her into embarrassment, upsetting the world around her. It wasn't until recently that he began to take more care with her feelings. Christmas had changed a great deal for them, making him realize she was one of the few people who stuck by him despite his behavior – for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. He knew she had had a quaint crush on him – God knows he had taken advantage of that more than a few times – but he never would have guessed that the man he deduced she was in love with that night, whom she had fancied everything up for, was him. He was not proud of his behavior that night and had been putting an effort into growing up a bit when it came to Molly Hooper. And suddenly, now, she was this brave girl whom he needed above all others to help him out. He mentally berated himself, wondering how far back he had set their relationship with his petulant and pain induced outburst. "Molly… I'm sorry."

He reached out a hand to touch hers and was taken aback when she slapped it away.

"Don't," she said firmly. "Don't, Sherlock, don't do that… you always…"

She wiped firmly at a tear that was escaping and walked purposefully towards the stairs, dashing up to her bathroom and angrily retrieving the cotton swabs. On her way back to him, she swept through the kitchen and grabbed a box of plastic sandwich bags. She set herself on a chair in front of Sherlock and tightened her ponytail before she began, actively avoiding his eyes as she masterfully gathered samples and wrapped them carefully in the bags. When she had finished, she placed the bags in Tupperware and set it securely in her satchel to be taken to the lab.

"Well," she said as she faced him. "Shall I stick to cliché and tend to your wounds or would you prefer to do that yourself?"

"I think I can manage," he answered. Her face fell ever so slightly, but she nodded and began to walk away. "However, I trust you to do a better job. Less likely that I'll end up looking like Frankenstein at the end of it."

She took her seat again and began to re-prep the cotton square. Leaning forward, she gently brushed his hair away from the wound and started to carefully wipe away the drying blood. She'd seen this scene in movies and television dozens of times, finding herself both entranced and repelled by the obvious reaction it elicited from the characters. Forced close contact, the nurturing touch of a woman healer. It was almost pathetic. Now that she found herself in the same position, however, she was almost positive that Sherlock's observant eyes would be trained on the rate of her pulse in her neck. It was the second time in a little over twenty four hours that she found herself cleaning him up, but this was the first time she had been so close to him, fingers gently touching the side of his face to steady him as she worked. How could he make her so mad and so flustered in such a short span of time? She was desperate for a distraction.

"What happened?" she asked him again.

"Mycroft left me a bread crumb," he told her. "Something I was working out last night that evolved into reality this morning. I went after someone… someone I believe to be closely tied to Moriarty's web."

"You confronted him? Sherlock, he could have recognized you," Molly pointed out the obvious, concerned.

"I hadn't planned on the confrontation. I broke into his flat and barely got a chance to begin investigating when he came home unexpectedly. Someone from Mycroft's division didn't distract him long enough. I acted quickly, he barely had the presence of mind to hit me before he tripped over his own feet and knocked me down the stairs," he winced as Molly applied the butterfly bandages to his cut.

"You think he worked with Jim?"

"I think… he was the messenger," Sherlock murmured cryptically, getting lost in his own mind. "Everywhere Richard Brook appeared over the years, he wasn't far away. He ran on a parallel line… a line that I'm hoping leads to the web spinner…"

He drifted off as Molly began to dab at his lip with a damp cloth, her fingers occasionally brushing inadvertently against his skin. He watched her intently, somewhat fascinated by the look of professional concentration on her face. She was trying very hard to remove her personal feelings from the situation and he bit his tongue before he could comment on that fact. After a few moments, she declared him fixed up and went to retrieve an ice pack from her freezer.

"For your lip," she told him. "It'll keep the swelling down. You might consider applying it to your ribs as well, you've probably strained them quite badly."

Though he took it, she knew he had very little intention of following her medical recommendation. She gave him a small smile and began to tidy up the mess of supplies from her kitchen table.

"I've interrupted your dinner," Sherlock said apologetically.

"S'okay," she told him. "I think I may just call it a night. Long day tomorrow… the body we arranged is being handed over to the funeral home and I need to present my autopsy findings for review before they're released to the press… think I may need to try to catch a bit of sleep before I lie to my superiors."

He looked her stoic face, amazed not for the first time at what she was willing and able to do for him. He shuffled the ice pack between his hands, considering his words.

"I may need to disappear for a few days," he informed her. She looked up from wiping down the table, concern etched in her face. "I should leave tonight, let you rest without my disturbing your sleep."

"I don't mind," she said, too quickly. "I mean, you're always welcome to – oh God, I just mean that it's not a bother, having you around."

"No, it's best that I go," he breezed past her nervous innuendo. "You won't have the results of those tests for at least a week and there are certain things I need to attend to in the meantime."

"Do you… can I help in any way?" she asked hopefully, not wanting to fall out of his orbit so soon.

"You're already helping, Molly," he told her as he stood up, grimacing and holding his sore side. He walked towards the stairs as he continued talking. "Those test results are of utmost importance. And you really should sleep better tonight, your eyes are starting to get rather puffy. And don't skip any meals, it makes you look gaunt rather quickly, all of which you could blame on my death, but realistically I need you in top form."

She rolled her eyes at his words, wishing he would stop paying so much attention to the changes in her physical appearance. Having finished tidying up the kitchen, she hurried up that stairs after him.

"You're one to talk about skipping meals," she pestered him as he crested the stairs. She paused in the hall as he opened the door to the guest room. "New clothes are on the bed for you. Just leave the old ones. I've gotten quite good at removing blood stains."

Slipping past him, she headed towards her room and only paused again when she turned to close her door, catching him still watching her from his doorway.

"Wherever you're going, Sherlock… be careful," she said quietly.

"I can't make any promises," he said with a small smirk.

"I know."

She gave him a half-hearted smile and closed her door.


	5. Chapter 5

There were distinct advantages to being the invisible girl. For over a week, Molly moved through the halls in St. Bart's nearly unbothered save for a few of her coworkers saying they were sorry for the loss of 'that weird bloke' she used to work with. It stung to hear the things people decided were suddenly okay to say about Sherlock now that he was dead. It only got worse when she went to the Yard. Greg was clearly the only one mourning the loss. The two detectives with the perpetually sour looks on their faces may as well have been clinking champagne flutes. It made her want to vomit. The rest of the police force was barely any different. They all seemed to have accepted the story that Sherlock had ensured was told to the world – he was a fraud. She was able to observe it all with hardly a glance in her direction.

She attended his funeral and prayed she would never have to endure the real thing.

It was a small affair, not that she had expected any different. John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and a smattering of people from his career he hadn't managed to piss off. The thing that struck her in the group was how ardently they all supported him. There was no talk of a possibility that he had been a fake at all. It was loyalty all the way and she felt good about that.

Mycroft even appeared like an apparition for a brief time, coolly removed from the grieving process. She found herself talking John down from punching him in the face for not showing more emotion. When the crowd departed, Mycroft fixed her with a look she was sure sufficed as another warning about her involvement. Her heart jumped a little at the look, but she swallowed her worries and followed the others to 221B for the wake.

Drinks were poured, memories shared, and tears were fought by some. She felt a familiar tightening in her chest and struggled against the memories of her own father's wake. It didn't take Freud to draw the lines between her father and Sherlock – brilliant men, dedicated to their professions with a constant battle for their attention. But unlike Sherlock, her father had been warm and attentive while not working hospital.

While the others busied themselves with a second round of whiskey, she slipped away from the group and down the hall to his room. She'd never set foot in the bedroom and found herself drawn to the space. Compared to the rest of the flat, his bedroom was downright bare. A few pictures for decoration, a framed poster of the periodic table of the elements, a display case with various scientific odds and ends – not much else. Molly had heard rumors about the more illicit habits Sherlock indulged in and was more than a little curious. She also felt that she deserved to even them out – she'd noticed her drawers had been… inspected. It didn't take her long to discover the black velvet bag tucked away behind his neatly folded undershirts. She frowned slightly at the discovery. Although she had never been strict opponent of people indulging in whatever it was they indulged in, it was a revelation about Sherlock that left her with mixed feelings.

"He never was good at hiding that."

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of John's voice.

"Wh-what, umm…" she searched for the right thing to say. "Did he, uh, how often did he…"

John's brow lowered and he shook his head.

"Never actually saw him," he told her. She nodded her understanding. John glanced about the room before looking up at her. "How are you doing, Molly?"

"Oh, you know," she rubbed her arm self-consciously. "'Bout as well as any of us are."

John studied her, mindlessly fingering the tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

"He was special to you," John stated.

"Oh," Molly looked down, feeling a lump rising in her throat. "It wasn't, um… it was just a silly thing, on my part. Nothing like what he had with you."

He shook his head.

"Not the same thing," he said firmly. She didn't know how to respond and let silence settle between them for a moment.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked sincerely. John sucked in a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, obviously pulling on his military training to keep composure.

"It's not going well, Molly," he told her, his voice struggling against emotion. Molly stepped forward and took one of his hands. He let out a desperate laugh at the contact, squeezing her hand. "Do me a favor?"

"Anything," she said.

"Pop by from time to time, okay?" he said, clearing his throat. "It'll, ah, it'll help make all this less… awful. For both of us, I think."

"Of course," Molly reached forward and pulled him into a tight hug. She gave him an encouraging smile as she pulled away. "C'mon, then. They'll begin to wonder where we've popped off to."

* * *

Days later, Molly had managed to run every test Sherlock had requested of her at the lab and obtained the results. No one had even once asked her what she was working on. Being a pathologist already made her an oddity in society, working in a profession that did not make good dinner conversation with friends or dates. She got on well with most everyone at the hospital, being friendly and kind to a fault. Her association with Sherlock distanced people, though. She was the only one he would work with and people tended to turn a blind eye to the situation. Flying under the radar suited her very well this week, however.

She gathered every result she had obtained into her satchel and began her trek home, pulling her phone out as she left St. Bart's.

_Results are in MH_

She hadn't heard from him since he left and could only hope he was okay.

It was late by the time she made it home and she could barely keep her eyes open through a quick meal before heading gratefully to bed. The extra time working on Sherlock's investigation in addition to her usual workload made for long days. It felt like she had just shut her eyes when her alarm buzzed, alerting her to the start of another day. The sound of a street cleaner outside was loud and annoying enough to drive her from her comfortable bed to seek the relaxation of her bathroom and a warm shower. She opened the door and shrieked in surprise at the sound of cascading water and the silhouette of a person behind her nearly transparent shower curtain.

"Your guest bath is too small."

Molly put a hand to her chest to try to still her pounding heart.

"Sherlock!" she cried, her voice several pitches higher than normal. "Are you _trying_ to frighten me to death? You could have at least woken me!"

"Tried, you were out cold," he replied, pulling the curtain back to within an inch of decency and fixing her with a curious look. "Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

Her mouth dropped open and she felt the heat rush to her cheeks, embarrassed and annoyed all at once. She could barely entertain the thought of what she might have said and the only thing she could think to do was to pick up the towel sitting on her counter and chuck it as his head.

"Hurry up, I'd like to get a shower in this morning too, if it's not too much trouble," she huffed, turning and shutting the door behind her. She waited impatiently on the edge of her bed, scratching Toby's insistent little head and attempting to drive away all thoughts of a wet, naked Sherlock in her bathroom. When he finally did emerge, dressed in slacks and a tight blue shirt, his damp curls framing his face, she fixed her eyes on the ground and nearly bolted past him to lock herself in the bathroom. She was almost glad he had used most of the hot water – the cool temperature was needed.

Once downstairs, Sherlock wasted no time in asking her every detail about her findings. He had helped himself to the paperwork, spread it all across the table, and seemed to have already resigned himself to the fact that she had been unable to get an identity from the blood work.

"I did find something quite unusual, though," she told him, leaning over his arm and grabbing a particular paper. "Traces of silver halide – silver bromide, specifically."

"Silver halides," Sherlock murmured, eyes darting across the information before him. "Silver halides, silver halides… could it be that easy?"

He jumped up from the table and grabbed her laptop, flipping it open and typing furiously.

"Sherlock, what is it?" she inquired, reading over his shoulder.

"What do you know about silver halide, Molly?"

"It's a compound used in a variety of chemical reactions," she said. "Mostly in photographic development."

Sherlock gave her an appreciative smile, his eyes flitting quickly to hers and back to the screen.

"Almost a lost art in a world of digital technology," he said briskly, bringing up a map of London on the computer screen. "There are plenty of photographers who still use silver halides for development, perhaps a few dozen in London, but most of them are independent artists. Narrow it down to the commercial photographers and you're left with perhaps half a dozen. Three of those are within a logical working distance from the building I went to last week. But just one of those catered to print work for actors." He pointed to a pin on the map. Clicking on a new search, he brought up a website. Prominently displayed on the home page of actors was a face that sent chills down Molly's spine. "Richard Brook couldn't trust his publicity to just anyone."

He leaped from the chair again and grabbed a brown trench coat and pageboy cap from her coat rack, items he must have acquired in his time away from her. Then he grabbed her coat as well and held it out for her. She looked at him, confused.

"Sorry, you want me to go with you?"

"Of course," he stated, acting as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll need you to do most of the talking."

"Sherlock, I have to work today," she reminded him.

"Call in sick."

"I've never called in sick," she said, sounding scandalized by the suggestion. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Then call in _late_ , I need an assistant!" he practically whined, shaking the coat at her. Ruefully, she walked over and grabbed it out of his hand.

Half hour later, they had made their way through back alleys and quiet streets to the inconspicuous studio of Steele Photography. Molly looked doubtfully at Sherlock.

"So you have some sort of plan, then?" she asked. "I mean, you can't just waltz in there, if they're part of Moriarty's network they'll recognize you."

"Quite right," he said, peering into the studio window and assessing the room and the man working the front desk computer. "And that's definitely my sparring partner in there. Which is why you're going in."

"Me?" Molly squeaked. She had not planned on becoming this involved in his investigation. Truthfully, she had only expected to be sent of to the lab when he needed something analyzed, allowed to return to her own little corner of the world when she was done. Her heart started to pound a little at the prospect of confronting part of Moriarty's web – she could barely handle normal conversation, let alone under cover investigations. "Sorry, what are you going to have me do?"

"Go in and ask for a session," he instructed her. "Get him away from the front desk, into a studio."

Molly looked down at her plain coat, oversized green jumper, and tan work slacks. Not exactly model material. She thought of her lackluster makeup and simple ponytail, feeling even less confident about the success of this plan.

"I don't really look the part," she voiced her concern. "And what if there's more than just him in there?"

"Doubtful. They wouldn't trust enough to bring in outsiders. He works alone," he said confidently. He spared a glance in her direction. "You look fine enough. It'll work."

"Right. Okay," she lifted her chin and marched bravely into the studio.

Sherlock watched her approach the man at the desk, talking nervously. He hoped it merely came off as coyness. He watched the interaction with narrowed eyes and was pleased when, after a few minutes, Molly disappeared with the man into a back room. Wasting no time, he entered the studio and headed straight for the office behind the front desk. He quickly assessed the space and narrowed down the possible places that important information could be kept. No computer, which meant anything that was worthwhile was a hardcopy. He focused on the file cabinet and tried the drawers. Only one was locked.

"The key, the key, where is the key," he muttered, taking in the room and eliminating the wrong answers. His eyes narrowed on a single film canister next to the pencil sharpener. He grabbed it and popped the top off, sliding a small silver key into his palm. Upon opening the cabinet, he discovered a single thumb drive. The sound of voices nearby pulled his attention. He could hear Molly talking unnaturally loudly. Moving quickly, he pocketed the drive and relocked the cabinet, tossed the key back into the canister and replaced it. He turned on his heel and exited the office, only to come face to face with he man who had attacked him.

"Oi! What's this, then?" the man demanded. Molly stood behind him, looking close to panic.

"William, tech support from your internet provider," Sherlock lifted the pitch of his voice, pulling off a decent Scottish accent. "Just checking on the connectivity today, making sure everything is running smoothly."

"Yeah?" the man cocked his head to one side. "Where's your equipment?"

Sherlock hesitated a beat too long. The man pulled a gun from the inside of his jacket and pointed it straight at Molly's head. She grimaced in fear and Sherlock clenched his hands at the sight.

"Both of you, in the back, now," the man growled.

Sherlock offered up his hands in surrender as he made his way over to Molly and the two of them walked down a hall and to a door that led into a large storage closet. The man roughly pushed Sherlock into the closet and waved his gun at Molly to follow. She whimpered a little and hurried after Sherlock.

"Dunno what the two of you are up to, but you can forget about robbery and forget about the equipment," he said roughly as he pulled a set of zip ties off the nearest shelf. "Mental if you think I don't protect what's mine."

He yanked Sherlock's arms behind his back and began to wind the zip tie around his wrists, holding the gun loosely with one hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Finally," he muttered and before the man could react he threw his head back into the man's face, hearing the satisfying crunch of what was surely a broken nose. The man flailed backward and Sherlock quickly spun around to knock the gun from his limp hand. Molly dashed for it and scooped it up, training it on their attacker, hoping he wouldn't notice her novice handling of the weapon. Sherlock tossed one more punch, effectively downing the man and rendering him unconscious. He shook his hand out and grimaced at the pain, reaching into his pocket with his other hand and extracting his phone.

"What do we do now?" Molly's voice quavered.

"Let Mycroft know he has a delivery to pick up," Sherlock informed her, punching in a text. He motioned for Molly to leave the room and she tentatively stepped out, keeping a nervous hold on the gun. Sherlock stepped over the body on the floor to follow her and let out a pained cry as he felt something sharp pierce his calf. They looked down to see the man extract a small syringe from Sherlock's leg before passing out again. Molly reached out a hand to Sherlock and pulled him through the doorway. He leaned heavily against the wall. "Give me the gun. Tie him up."

Molly did as she was told and quickly turned her attention to a rapidly deteriorating Sherlock. She eased him down against the wall and worked hurriedly to assess him, knowing she may only have minutes to get them out of there before the authorities began arriving. She had no idea how many in Mycroft's network were aware of Sherlock's current state of being undead – chances were, none of them. He was working hard to stay alert as she checked him out.

"Your vitals are okay," she determined. "But we need to leave. Now."

She picked one of his arms up and swung it across her shoulder and used her leverage to hoist him up. Sherlock did his best to help her with his weight, bracing a hand against the wall while she found a good balance.

"Why does everyone always drug me?" he groaned, feeling his focus begin to drift already.

"Can't imagine, you're only one of the smartest men in all Britain," she offered. He grunted in disapproval.

"One of?" he demanded, offended.

"My point is, it's a quick way to incapacitate you," she rolled her eyes.

They stumbled their way out of the building and she quickly hailed them a cab. He practically fell into the backseat and began to apologize profusely for it. Molly saw the cabbie turn around and began to panic. If he recognized Sherlock, they were in very serious trouble. She slid in quickly and forced Sherlock to bend forward.

"Head between your legs, darling," she instructed cheerfully, tossing a smile at the cabbie. "Doesn't know when to stop with the wine, this one."

It worked. The cabbie gave her a sympathetic smile and returned his focus to the road, driving off as she gave him their destination. Under the guise of offering comfort, Molly kept a steady feel for Sherlock's pulse on his neck and watched for any sign of a serious reaction. He was muttering under his breath and kept trying to use her knee to push himself back into a sitting position. She bit back a yelp when his hand slipped and skidded a good distance up her thigh. _For shit's sake_ , she bit her lip hard.

It was a fine struggle getting him out of the cab, but she managed, thanking the driver and grateful that he drove off with hardly a second look. She grunted under his increasingly limp weight, but he was still able to put one foot in front of the other and they somehow made it up the stairs and into the house.

"Don' know how you got so strong working with dead bodies, Molly," he said, his speech slurring. She almost found it funny, were it not for the fact that she had no idea what he had been drugged with.

"I do pop to the gym every once in a while," she told him, finding that the conversation was at least comfort that he was still coherent and alive. She steered him towards the couch and he sank down onto the cushions, listing over to one side. She reached out and righted him before sitting on the coffee table in front of him and leaning forward to take a better look at his eyes and color.

"Shows," he mumbled, maintaining eye contact with her though his eyes were glazing over. "Your body is very… well put together."

She didn't need a mirror to know that her face had probably just turned twelve shades of red. She also suddenly became very aware that she had placed herself between his knees in her efforts to make sure he was all right. And that he had placed his hands on her knees to steady himself. And that he was leaning rather close to her.

"D'you know, Molly Hooper, that you are really quite pretty," he told her.

She hesitated for half a second before scooting back from him and, most likely influenced by his drugged state, he mirrored her and leaned back into the couch, looking nearly as startled as she felt.

"What the hell did he give you?" she exclaimed.

"I've noooo idea," he slurred, his eyes wide. He blinked hard and Molly could tell he was fighting off sleep. Considering he was not having any severe reactions, she came to the conclusion that the drug couldn't have been anything serious.

"Come on, then," she said as she stood up and gently pulled him up from the sofa. He leaned into her heavily and she convinced herself it was necessity to hold tightly to his muscular torso. And enjoy the scent of his cologne. "You're off to bed to sleep this off."

"Your bed?"

"No, your bed."

"Your bed's bigger."

"Why do you think I bought it?"

He was asleep the moment he lied down. Molly breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of his room, incredibly thankful that they had survived the morning and his presence in the world had not been discovered. She pulled out her phone as she made her way downstairs, dialing her office.

"Jane," she said as the phone was answered. "I can't make it in today… taking care of a sick friend…"

* * *

Sherlock slept fitfully, the drugs taking a powerful hold of his mind. He was vaguely aware of Molly checking on him and bringing him a grilled cheese sandwich and soup. Mostly, he dreamed. Unlike his experience with Irene Adler, the dreams were not related to his case and they were not cerebral. They were terrifying. Pitching off buildings over and over again or failing to jump and seeing John executed before his eyes. Finally, he jumped and instead of falling to the rubbish truck, he fell headlong into a vast darkness and descended for what seemed like eternity before Moriarty's devilish face rushed out of the darkness and smothered his vision. He shot upright in bed, breathing hard and wiping sweat away from his brow with a shaking hand.

Molly had heard his shout and sat up in her own bed, listening hard for any more signs of distress. She had finally gone to bed at a late hour but had been afraid to fall asleep out of fear he would need her. After a few moments of silence, she told herself to calm down and face the fact that Sherlock was not going to need her to come to his rescue. It would always be that way, just the way it was today as she faced a henchman with a gun – Sherlock was the rescuer. She sighed and settled back down into her pillow but was unable to feel any sense of relaxation.

Just then, there was a timid knock at her door and the handle was turned without waiting for reply. She sat up again, peering into the darkness.

"Sherlock?" she said, seeing his form step into her room. "Are you okay?"

"I seem to be unable to sleep in that room," he replied, still sounding slightly woozy.

Molly blinked and stared at him for a moment before reacting. Without saying a word, she slid over in her bed, pulled back the covers, and waited. He may still have been working off the effects of his narcotic, but the look of deduction slid across his face before he seemed to make up his mind. He approached her bed carefully and looked like a wary puppy as he slid into it and folded the covers over his body. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Molly's heart still rushed at the idea of Sherlock in her bed. It was almost surreal, seeing him lie there next to her.

The moment was short lived as he rolled away from her, whether from embarrassment or preservation she did not know. Perhaps, a bit of both.

"Is he okay?" his voice was low and quiet, breaking the silence in the room. Molly had no need to question who he was talking about.

"He's hurting. Very much," she told him honestly. His only response was a low grunt.

Any other time she would have left him to his peace, but the urge to comfort was too strong. She reached out her hand and placed it tenderly on his arm, feeling sleep tug at her eyes. In a matter of minutes, she began to doze off, but not before she felt Sherlock slide his own hand up to meet hers, lacing his fingers with her own.


	6. Chapter 6

She woke up alone. Not that she had been expecting anything different, but it still left the essence of disappointment in the air. She rolled out of bed, trying hard to ignore the lingering scent he had left in the sheets and on the pillow, and grabbed her light yellow robe to throw over her polka dot pyjamas. The sound of voices downstairs drifted up to her as she entered the hall and she frowned in confusion as she made her way down. Her steps slowed as she came upon the sight of Mycroft Holmes in her living room lecturing a petulant looking Sherlock who was slumped in a lounge chair, his long legs stretched out before him.

"… nearly ruined everything you have managed to pull off so far," Mycroft sounded like a disapproving father. "I have people working on this, Sherlock, and we don't need you rushing in through the cover of shadows to undermine the work."

"Maybe you should hire new people, I seem to have done their job for them in a matter of days."

"You got lucky!"

"I don't surround myself with stupid, luck has nothing to do with it," Sherlock spat out.

"Oh of course, no one can possibly be so clever as Sherlock Holmes, do forgive me for putting my best men on this case," Mycroft said in his unique fashion of posh sarcasm.

"Your best men let Moriarty walk free and they couldn't even seem to realize he had a whole other persona. Bit sloppy, that," Sherlock accused, his eyes flashing at his brother. "Or is it possible that they did know, hm?"

Mycroft looked down and shook his head.

"There are aspects about the operations of this government that you will never care to understand, Sherlock," he said, sounding tired. "For the time being, I am begging you - keep a low profile."

Sherlock gave his brother a withering look and crossed his arms over his chest. Mycroft shifted his weight and turned to leave, catching sight of Molly hovering on the last step. He paused to address her.

"I do apologize, Miss Hooper," he said, casting a glance at Sherlock. "I had no idea you were going to wind up with a stray on your doorstep."

She didn't even have time to offer a reply before he was out the door. She returned her focus to Sherlock, watching his fingers drum rapidly against his arm.

"What happened?" she asked, making her way into the living room.

"It finally dawned on the idiot they arrested yesterday who it was he almost held hostage," he said. "Apparently it's caused Mycroft some inconvenience to shut him up."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said worriedly, sinking onto the couch. He frowned at her.

"Don't fuss, Molly, it's not helpful."

"I will fuss, thank you," she told him indignantly, her hand instinctively running nervously along the neckline of her pyjamas. "I've nearly been taken hostage, I've had to patch you up and drag you practically unconscious halfway across London and I didn't hear you complain once last night about my fussing."

He shot her a warning look at that, appearing to shift uncomfortably in his seat. She let out a small huff.

"Right. Fine, we'll pretend it never happened, then," she muttered, folding her arms over her chest protectively. "What does it mean, then, that that man knows you're alive?"

"It means that Mycroft will have every reason to keep him in custody with no chance of him getting in my way," he explained. "And he'll be properly interrogated."

"Mycroft will have all the information," Molly stated, rightly worried that if that were the case it would not be shared liberally with Sherlock.

"Not all of it," he reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced the flash drive. He began twirling it in his fingers like a miniature baton. "Got a decent look before big brother showed up. Pretty much what I expected – the man was a messenger, a mouthpiece, and an imbecile."

She looked at the drive spinning in his agile fingers.

"He had to keep all the players straight, didn't he?" she asked.

"Precisely," he smiled. "Moriarty clearly didn't choose him, he was chosen by someone else, someone higher and more important. He was top notch at making sure Jim and Richard were kept separate and that everyone else performed the roles they were supposed to. Pity his sun dried brain wasn't able to remember who everybody was."

He grabbed her laptop from under the chair and stood up, stepping directly over the coffee table to take the seat next to her on the sofa. Flipping it open, he inserted the drive and brought up a file to show her. He pointed to the screen.

"There," he proclaimed, as close to giddy as Sherlock Holmes got.

Molly leaned in close to look at the grainy pictures on the screen, below which there were several paragraphs of gibberish.

"It's encrypted," she observed.

"Sort that bit out later," he brushed her comment off. "The pictures, look at the pictures."

She gave him a curious look before focusing again on the screen. The pictures were poor quality, but after a few moments she began to piece together what he was indicating. Her eyes widened as the realization dawned on her.

"That… that man looks just like you," she stammered. "And the other one, that's John, it looks just like John. Who are they?"

"Two of the pawns Moriarty used to ruin me. You remember the kidnapping?" Molly looked at him as though he were crazy. Everyone knew about the kidnapping. Kitty Riley had seen to that. His face scrunched briefly as he remembered. "The children… the little girl, she lost her mind when she saw us. At the time, I thought it was just shock, or a trick of Moriarty's. As usual, the simplest explanation is the correct one."

"They're the reason that… that moment with that girl is what caused Anderson and Donovan to," she shook her head, saying their names with noticeable spite. Sherlock watched her agitation, searching.

"How did you know it was them?"

"Office gossip. Easy to hear, even easier when people don't even know you're there," she told him simply. She tugged at the hem of her sleeve. "That, and Greg divulged a thing or two."

He narrowed his eyes.

"You and _Greg_ are talking?" he quipped.

"At your _wake_ ," she emphasized. "He was a few drinks in and I think he was feeling sentimental, if you can believe it." Sherlock made a face at the word. Molly smirked. "I wouldn't laugh too much at what people say under the influence, if I were you."

She delighted in the hint of color that appeared on his cheeks. As she peered back at the screen, her face became serious.

"If you find them," she began, "if they are exposed and they confess…"

"It would all come crashing down," he finished for her. "Every lie, every trick, every crime – it would all go up in smoke."

She took one last look at the uncanny photos before standing up and heading towards the stairs. Sherlock stared after her, perplexed.

"Where are you going?" he blurted out.

"I have to work today, Sherlock. There's no one to cover for me today," she said as she made her way up the stairs. "And the sooner I'm done, the sooner I can come back here and help you out, if you need it."

Sherlock was beginning to feel inconvenienced by being dead. He was used to being able to sweep into Molly's world and get what he needed, John at his side to offer assistance. Now, being stuck in the pathologist's house, limited in mobility and help, the frustration was starting to mount.

* * *

It was a rare day when Molly could happily rejoice in the lack of death that crossed her path. Fortunately for her current circumstances, fate had offered her just that sort of day. She was done early, grateful for the opportunity to stop by the shop and grab a few essential groceries on her way home. Just as she was exiting the hospital, her mobile rang. She stared at the unknown number for a moment before answering hesitantly.

"Hello?"

"Oh, Molly, it's Mrs. Hudson, dear."

"Oh! Hi, is everything all right?" she rushed to ask, hearing the worry in the other woman's voice.

"It's John. Haven't been able to reach him in the last two days and he was supposed to stop by the flat today to sort out some things. He never came by."

Molly stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to block out every bad scenario flooding her mind.

"Where is he staying?"

Mrs. Hudson gave her John's new flat address and Molly wasted no time in flagging down a taxi. She tugged at the edge of her jumper the entire ride, worried sick about what she was about to encounter. Fifteen agonizing minutes later, she was dropped in front of a nondescript building on a fairly quiet block. She dashed up the stairs to the door and quickly found his name on the panel, buzzing up to the flat. Several long moments later, she heard a crackle on the intercom.

"John!" she called out, somewhat relieved. "It's me, it's Molly.  John, please, let me up."

There was no response, but she could still hear the static of the active intercom.

"John Watson, you let me up or I will buzz every tenant in this building until someone does, because I am not leaving."

A second later, the door buzzed and unlatched. She grabbed the handle and swung it open, taking the stairs two at a time until she reached his floor. Not bothering to knock, she pushed his door open and stepped into his dimmed, simple flat. She moved carefully past the kitchenette and into the small living room, taking in the sight of John sitting on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees, hands folded over the back of his lowered head. Her breathing hitched as she saw the half empty bottle of scotch and the semi-automatic sitting on the coffee table.

_Oh no, no no no…_

"John…"

"How are you doing it, Molly?" he choked out. She took a few hesitant steps closer. "How are you not falling apart?"

"I… I don't know," she said gently. "It's not been easy."

"I know how," he continued as though she hadn't said a word, raising his head to reveal a drawn, haunted face. "Because you were already whole before you met him. You loved him, but he wasn't your whole bloody world."

She drew a sharp breath, not just at her personal feelings being vocalized by another person, but at the revelation that John considered himself nothing without Sherlock. She took a few more brave steps towards him.

"He had a way of doing that," she quavered. "It was easy to have blinders on when it came to him."

"It's not just blinders, Molly," John nearly sobbed through gritted teeth, standing suddenly. "That man gave me a purpose again, he practically saved my life, he _did_ save my life!"

For emphasis, he reached down and grabbed the gun, making Molly's heart leap into her throat. She watched the waning sunlight glint off the polished steel, tracking its movement as John paced.

"I can't… look at the world the same way again, it's all changed," he stammered. "Without him here, it all seems meaningless. I'm back to being… useless…"

He slowly stopped pacing and just stood in one spot, shifting his weight and looking at the ground. Molly swallowed hard and carefully closed the distance between them. He stopped shifting when he saw her feet enter his line of vision. Ever so slowly, she lifted her hand and took hold of the top of his weapon, directing it away from them as she gently pried it out of his hand. Her heartbeat roared in her ears as his hand fell away, dropping limply to his side. A moment passed before John covered his face with his hands and sank to his knees, defeated.

After the incident at the photography studio the day before, she had jumped onto the internet to do a quick rundown on basic gun features. Proximity to Sherlock seemed to require the knowledge and she was determined not to find herself helpless again. Her hand still shook like a leaf as she knelt down with John and pushed the gun a safe distance away on the floor.

Without hesitation, she reached out and pulled him into her arms, his forehead falling onto her shoulder. He let out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"He would… absolutely take the mickey if he knew I was behaving like this," John spoke into her shoulder. She couldn't help but laugh right along with him at that, stroking his hair comfortingly.

"You are not useless, John. He'd want you to keep going," she assured him seriously. "That much I can guarantee. He'd want you to keep poking everyone but God in the eye for him."

"He'd never spare God," he gave a small chuckle as he pulled away from Molly and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Quite right," she smiled.

It faded when she saw his eyes wander over to the weapon lying just a meter from them. She saw his breathing deepen.

"I think I may need you to stay with me tonight."

"Of course," she replied without hesitation. She pulled her phone from her pocket. "Just a quick call to Mrs. Hudson? She was quite worried."

"Shit." John dragged a hand over his face. "I was supposed to…"

"S'okay, John," Molly put a reassuring hand on his arm. "She understands."

She turned away from him as she activated her phone, pulling it tight to her stomach.

_Won't be home tonight. John needs someone right now MH_

* * *

Molly woke with a start, her neck stiff from sleeping at an odd angle on the couch. She had curled up at one end, head propped on her arm, empty gun piece firmly clenched in the hand on her lap. She had made John remove the clip and hand over both bullets and weapon to her possession. Then she had ordered them a plethora of takeout after he admitted he had not eaten in two days. He passed out on the couch, a combination of exhaustion and food overload. She glanced over and saw him still sleeping, feet tucked right next to her hip. She looked at the clock on the wall and realized she had just enough time to stop home and change her clothes before heading to work. If it was safe to leave…

She unfolded herself from the couch as gently as she could, but the movement stirred John from his sleep. He looked at her groggily.

"Molly," he slurred, wiping a hand over his face. "You're still here?"

"Just woke up."

"Don't you have work?"

"Well, I thought, if you needed… that is, d'you want me to stay?"

"No, no, please," he replied, sitting up. "You've… I think that was the worst of it."

She cringed inwardly to hear him describe it like an illness.

"You sure?"

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. John moved past her to answer it. Molly saw a glimpse of a woman with sandy blonde hair before John was engulfed in a hug.

"John! My darling John, you look a mess!"

"Ta, Harry, lovely to see you, too," he said, his voice muffled by her hug.

Introductions were made (she was exactly what Molly expected – bold as brass and dressed like a proper London fashionista) and John quickly squashed Harry's assumption that Molly was his new girlfriend. At that, she took her cue to leave, exchanging a look with John to ensure that all was well. She couldn't help the morbid thought of what his sister would have been in for had Molly not come to his apartment last night. This was obviously not a surprise visit and it would have been all too convenient for his sister to be in town to sort everything out… She stopped her thoughts with an inward shudder. At least he would not be alone now.

She promised that she would visit soon and bid him goodbye, making her way down the stairs and feeling the heavy weight of his semi-automatic at the bottom of her satchel. It wouldn't take him long to realize it was gone, but the peace of mind it would afford her would make any annoyance on his part worth it. She stepped outside the building and stopped short. It was raining buckets. And no taxi in sight.

"Lovely," she muttered, turning up the hood on her coat and shoving her hands into her pockets to trek to a busier street.

Halfway down the block, she shrieked as a hand wrapped around her arm and yanked her out of the rain and into a thin alley between buildings. She pulled against the grip with all her strength, opening her mouth to yell for help only to be silenced with a hand over her lips.

"Molly! Molly, it's me!"

The hand dropped from her mouth.

"Sherlock!" she hissed, taking in his new disguise – jeans, a dark grey hoodie under a hunter green slicker, and a baseball cap. She assumed he was trying different looks, avoiding patterns. " _What_ are you doing here, John could see you!"

"Is he all right?" Sherlock demanded, holding her shoulders in a vice grip.

"Yes."

"Is he _safe_?"

"He is now."

"What do you mean 'now'?" he narrowed his eyes.

Without speaking, Molly reached into her satchel and took out the empty weapon for him to see. His hands dropped from her shoulders and he backed away from her, looking as though he didn't know which way to go.

"Shit."

Molly eyes widened in surprise. She couldn't ever recollect Sherlock swearing like that in the entire time she'd known him.

"Is he alone? Did you leave him alone?" he cried, darting to the edge of the alley and looking for all the world like he was about to fly up to John's flat like a superhero.

"No! No, his sister is with him now," she said quickly. Sherlock kept staring in the direction of the flat, his hand repetitively flexing.

"The blind leading the blind," he muttered before turning back to her, indicating the gun still in her hand. "Does he know you took that?"

"No," she said.

"Is it loaded?" he asked suddenly, his brow drawn.

"Oh, God no!" she quickly produced the clip from her coat pocket. A smile spread across his face.

"Molly Hooper, you are brilliant," he told her, gesturing for her to return the items to their hiding spots. "Keep those, you might need them."

"W-why would I need a gun?" she asked, somewhat startled. He shrugged.

"Lurking danger, entertainment on a boring Saturday night, whichever you please."

Her face fell as he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up and his attention returned to the street beyond the alley.

"You're leaving again," she stated.

"Two or three ideas of where one of our boys might be. Can't risk him moving," he informed her. He turned back to her and stepped closer. "I need you to watch him, Molly. Don't let him regress, don't let his diligence falter."

Molly nodded, waiting for his quick goodbye before being left alone. She stared up at him in surprise when he lifted his hand and gently placed it along her cheek, his thumb tentatively stroking her skin.

"Thank you. Look after yourself."

She barely had time to register the moment before it was over and he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

He hadn't intended to be gone for so long. With the information he had acquired, he had started with the blonde assassin. For simplicity's sake, he catalogued him as "A." He neatly tucked away the strange feeling that he was hunting John, amazed as he was at the resemblance the first time he saw the man. The doppelganger effect was no excuse for vacillation when it came to his goal.

His hunt started in London and Sherlock quickly realized the immensity of the task ahead of him. The hitman had bodyguards. It took him several weeks to pick off the first few. The majority went to Mycroft, with love, from Sherlock. The last encounter in London ended in ambiguity. Interrupted, he had narrowly escaped, knowing he had done enough damage to cause a death. By the time he returned to the location, the body was gone.

Death was not what bothered Sherlock. He held a continual debate with himself over his classification as ruthless or simply reactionary. His whole world had been threatened. He threatened back. It was fairly simple in his mind that if someone died in the process it was one less person to be concerned with wounding those around him. Truthfully, he suffered the disappointment of lost information and knowledge. Every man in Mycroft's possession was valuable proof of the truth.

It was this unfinished delivery that cost Sherlock time. The network spooked and it was weeks before he tracked them to Belfast. One disappearance of one of their brethren later and they spooked right back to London.

Two months.

A nagging in his brain told him every few days to text Molly so that he would not be bombarded with her incessant worrying when he finally did return. He found her cropping into his thoughts, usually in tandem with a particularly cold night or after days of tedious waiting in the shadows. She was there, with her warm smile and insufferable awkwardness, waiting to comfort him and protect John. He wanted to hate every moment of it.

The return to London left a frustratingly cold trail and after a few days of tedium he realized it was time to regroup. He felt unfocused and the weeks of positing ideas and plans to himself for analyzing were, interestingly enough, starting to make him feel like he'd lost a marble or two. Although he relished time alone to think, it was no good discussing ideas if someone didn't eventually come along to join his conversation. He missed having John around for that. Molly had been a fine substitute, when she wasn't blushing or mad at him for some reason he couldn't understand. She'd been quite useful, really. And brave. What she'd done for John had simmered in his mind for days.

The timing of his decision placed him near St. Bart's at what was certainly the end of her shift on a warm Friday. He had folded himself into the shadows of a nearby building, waiting. Despite his publicity prior to his suicide, Sherlock had found it remarkably easy to move about London. People barely observed the details of their own petty lives, let alone who was moving down the alleys and along rooftops. Thoughtless cattle, the lot of them. His story was a sensation and, as it was with most celebrities, was quickly forgotten when it was over. It suited him to be back to anonymity.

Standing so near the building, he found himself wishing he could forget.

His eyes kept wandering up the brick face of the four stories. It was hard to feign indifference to everything when his dreams had been betraying his own control and, if he was being perfectly, begrudgingly honest, he found it hard to ignore the slight ache he felt to crawl into her bed.

Finally, he noticed Molly leaving the building. He had been ready to claim her attention immediately, anxious to use her mind to work out the thoughts in his own, but was stopped by something. It was not a drastic change, but it was enough to stop his plan and just observe. She had let her hair down, parted slightly to the side and billowing down her back. New shoes, somewhat fancier. Gone were the usual shapeless pants, replaced with a smart blue skirt, flowing around her knees. Simple white blouse, short sleeved, with her light coat tucked over her arm.

Intrigued, he followed her. Halfway to her home, on a block dotted with shops and restaurants, she entered a pub. Pulling his cap down low over his brow, he moved carefully to the edge of the window and peered in. Sherlock had always been confused by the need to socialize in places such as these or, really, the need to socialize at all with most people. He had always found that anyone he didn't wish to invite into the comfort of his own home wasn't worthy of conversation and so maintained that his home was the best place to socialize. Establishments such as this were for lonely people to seek out companionship or for mundane gatherings for sporting events and dull, drunken meetings of friends.

It appeared Molly had arrived for the latter.

* * *

Halfway through her third pint, Molly began to feel the warmth settle into her body and she knew the sip she had just taken should be her last. She'd inherited the Nordic drinking skills of her mother's family, but she knew when it was prudent to stop. She looked around their little table, tucked on the side of the pub, and smiled. Greg and John chatting animatedly about a rugby match they had watched the last time they were at the pub, Mary glancing at her with a look that Molly knew was a giant thank you for inviting her tonight, and John not appearing to mind how close Mary was sitting to him. Happy little crew, finally. Almost perfect…

Her smile dropped a bit.

"You okay, Molly?"

Greg's question took her out of her reverie.

"Yes," she smiled again, reaching for her purse. "Just beginning to think I should say goodnight."

The suggestion was met with resounding disagreement from the table. She laughed as she slid out of her seat.

"Lovely of you to miss me so dearly, but I'm afraid I'll fall asleep on the table soon if I don't get home," she said, leaning over to hug Mary goodbye. She whispered in her ear, "Be good."

Mary winked at her and Molly knew she could trust her friend with John. She popped a quick kiss on the top of John's head and he patted the hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing it quickly. It was his established signal to her – all was well.

"I'll walk you out," Greg offered, standing up. They shuffled their way past pub goers and he opened the door to the shoebox foyer for her. "You seem happy, Molly," he said as the door swung shut behind them.

"Should have stopped on the second lager," she laughed, brushing her hair away from her face.

"No, that's not quite… I mean recently, you seem happy," he grimaced, knowing the words sounded all wrong at the befuddled look on her face. "He just brought you down so much when he was… alive. I'm just glad his death hasn't done the same thing."

"Oh," she blinked, unsure of how to respond. Inwardly, she was panicking that she wasn't pulling off her part of the act well enough, not that Greg could possibly know that was the reason for her discomfort.

"Shit," he said, thinking he had overstepped. "Don't get me wrong, he was a bloody genius and it's been hell solving crimes without him - "

"No, it's okay. I understand," she cut him off gently. She hesitated before speaking again. "I do miss him. That doesn't go away easily."

He smiled in relief before giving her a quick chuck under the chin.

"Better head back in," he said. "Don't want them to think we're out here having a snog. Wife wouldn't like that!"

"Oh! No," she laughed with him, tripping over herself trying to find a witty response. "That's not, no, that's definitely… let's not start that rumor."

He laughed again and headed back inside the pub.

_Clever, Molly_.

She walked out into the warm night air and started the short walk to her home, a long stream of thoughts about the evening trickling through her mind. She had barely turned the corner when her phone chirped. Pulling it out, she saw a message from Greg.

_Bollocks! You left me here as the third wheel! You owe me a pint and chips for this betrayal_

She smiled wide, laughing to herself as she pocketed her phone. Somehow, she didn't think it would take much convincing to get John to come along to the pub anymore.

"You should pay more attention to your surroundings."

It must be amusing to him, sneaking up on her. That was the only way to explain the shower, the alley, and his sudden need to deliver safety advice from inches behind her. Either that or he was testing the health of her heart. She managed to keep her feet under her and continue walking, though her adrenaline had shot out of her control the second that voice of his spoke. The outfit wasn't helping either – back to the baseball cap, hoodie, and jeans, but good Lord did he have to add the leather jacket with the collar turned up? The time on the run had left very un-Sherlock stubble along his jaw as well.

"Why, am I in danger?" she inquired.

"Difficult to say," he said as he moved to walk elbow to elbow with her. She shot him a worried look.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, forget that," he instructed her unhelpfully.

"You're back," she stated, lowering her voice. "I wasn't expecting you to return this soon. Your last message sounded like it wasn't quite… did you take care of everything?"

"No," he said slowly, an edge of irritation to his voice. "And perhaps we should refrain from further discussion until we are in a better location."

Molly took the hint and clammed up. They walked in silence for a few minutes, but she was aware of his glance in her direction every so often.

"You were smiling, why were you smiling?" he rattled off the question suddenly.

"I'm allowed to smile, Sherlock," she informed him. At his increasingly deductive look, she sighed. "Greg messaged me, it made me laugh. Happy?"

"Not nearly as happy as your charming little party, apparently. Since when do you frequent pubs with _Greg_?"

"And John and my friend Mary," she filled in for him. "It's been good for John, these past few weeks, he needs the consistency."

"Mary, who's Mary?"

"Just a friend. Honestly, it was hardly what I'd call a party."

"You're wearing makeup which means it was more than just a random gathering and you had time to prepare, not to mention you've changed your clothes from your usual work jumpers, out to impress. Color of your cheeks suggests two, eh, three pints, your limit before you start embarrassing yourself. Judging by the amount of time you were in there you all had _plenty_ to converse about. Beer does inspire such fine intellectual conversations." His finely controlled sarcasm was on full display. Molly felt as though she was being x-rayed, memories of last Christmas welling up inside her. He pointed at the sleeve of her shirt. Apparently, he wasn't finished yet. "Fibers of a grey wool on your sleeve, _not_ your coat fabric, which means you were sitting awfully close to someone, not to mention your earlobe is slightly red, you tug at it when you're trying to be coy – not what you'd call a party?"

Molly gaped at him, trying to decipher the look that bordered on anger he was giving her.

"Are you done?" she demanded. When he opened his mouth, she held up a hand, her face scrunching in annoyance. "That - that was rhetorical! You have no idea, Sherlock, _no_ idea what it's taken to get John to leave his flat over the last two months. Four weeks ago I finally managed to convince him to indulge in a pint and a night that didn't revolve around agony. Two weeks ago, Greg joined us and it was the happiest I have seen John since before you died. Mary joined us tonight, since I've canceled so many plans with her recently, and it was practically… normal. So don't you dare stand there and act put out that your friends are daring to enjoy life again. He's healing, Sherlock. Let him heal." She allowed herself to stop her lecture, proud that she had made it through without her voice faltering too much and confident that Sherlock looked sufficiently admonished. In fact, he looked downright stunned. One obvious glance down at her outfit prompted one more bone to pick. "And as far as my wardrobe, not that it's _really_ any of your business, but it's been nice to have something to get fancied up for and not made fun of for doing so!"

Anyone else would have thought Sherlock was speechless. Sadly, Molly knew better. He was calculating, deducing, most likely working out the best way to have the last word. For once, she didn't feel like sticking around to find out what those words were. Their conversation – fight, really – had led them to her front door and she roughly shoved the key in the lock and flung the door open. She hung her coat quickly and was aware of him walking inside and closing the door, moving with his typical coolness, hands clasped behind his back as he entered her home again.

"I'm tired," she fibbed, knowing full well he knew she was doing so. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to bed."

He let her go, but as she climbed the stairs she was still treated to that stare of his that made her feel like she was having her mind read.

She lay in her bed, listening to his movement in her house. The shower running. Drawers being opened and closed. His voice reverberating through her bedroom wall as he talked to himself. It had been two months since she had seen him and part of her had wanted to throw her arms around his neck in gratitude that he was alive, but he just made it so bloody difficult sometimes. After more than an hour of tossing, quite unable to shut her mind off and uncomfortable from the warmth of the night, Molly gave up. She tossed her sheets back and made for the door. She needed an outlet and she didn't care if it disturbed him at this point.

* * *

Molly Hooper with spirit. That was quite something to get used to.

It didn't fit.

It forced him to rearrange the information in his mind, a task he typically resented. She had been doing so much of that recently, though, that he had not even bothered to lock what he knew about her into place anymore.

Sitting cross legged at the end of his bed, fingers dutifully beneath his chin, he examined a new nagging sensation associated with Molly. Something to do with her spending leisure time with Lestrade. Something to do with the smile that graced her face upon receiving a text message from him.

He knew that John would have a good deal to say about it in an instant, but all Sherlock could summon was the feeling that Lestrade was distracting Molly from him. He wondered about the desire to make sure Lestrade knew his presence was not welcome in this area.

His text tone broke his concentration.

The homeless network with news.

Target spotted.

He quickly filed away his thoughts for later, honing in on the more pressing matter.

Shrugging on his sweatshirt, he hurried out of the room and towards the stairs. He instantly stilled at the sound winding its way up from the floor below. It took him seconds to find the right match in his mind – Chopin, etude no. 3. _Not_ a recording. He moved down the stairs quietly, turning down the small hallway towards the curtained doorway he hadn't given a second thought to since first stepping foot in her home.

Sherlock gently slid a hand along the curtain and pushed it aside. The sight that unfolded before him caused an unnerving acceleration of his heart rate. He had been right that it was an office, with her dissection microscope sitting on a desk in the corner surrounded by slides, another bookcase stuffed with books, and in the center of the room… Molly was sitting at a baby grand, the glow from the streetlamp outside casting a soft glow on her silhouette. The piano was angled slightly away from the doorway, but he could see her hands gliding across the keys in a well-practiced fashion. He had never paid much attention to her hands before, but he saw them now. Small, elegant, and dexterous. The sleeves of her youthful, polka dotted pyjama blouse were rolled up to allow for better movement. With her face free of makeup and her hair down, draped over her shoulder in soft waves, she looked entirely different from the night of the Christmas party so many months ago and with the exact opposite effect – she was bewitching.

It was a stunning enough sight to begin with, but there was an added detail that Sherlock was sure would be burned in his mind forever. Dangling over the edges of the piano bench were her bare legs, her thighs toned and her calves flexed from the manipulation of the pedals. Watching her made his hands itch to hold the instrument that had been denied him for weeks. His mind began to contemplate a more satisfying use for his hands with a more convenient subject and he struggled greatly to suppress the vertiginous feeling.

Her eyes were closed and an almost rapturous look covered her face. He knew he was intruding on a private moment. His feet seemed cemented to the ground, however. He felt a multitude of memories and facts about Molly Hooper shift and rearrange like a stack of cards in a dealer's hand. The room he had placed her in in his mind crumbled away and he was left not knowing where she fit now.

He thought of Irene Adler. He couldn't help the comparison. She had been the first woman to ever truly turn his head, intriguing him with an intellectual prowess to match his own and a vivacity he had not known before. It was the closest he had ever come to true distraction.

But with Molly, it was… something new. Unlike Irene Adler, who had been a mystery until she revealed herself to be predictable, Molly had been a mystery hiding behind a façade of normality. Her general good heartedness and chin-up attitude was enough to fool him into thinking he had unraveled the workings of her life a long time ago.

Molly Hooper had fooled him.

And now she was threatening to break into a corner of his mind he had decided long ago to barricade against any intruder. _She would fit that corner very nicely_ , the thought came unbidden. He deduced the situation quickly: she had proven herself to fit into his life without hindering his genius. On occasion, she even improved it.

In this moment she was very unlike the Molly he had come to expect over the years. This was the same Molly who looked into his heart and told him exactly what he had been hiding from John, the Molly who was able to see beyond the role he had been playing. This was the Molly who had the potential to catch his eye and keep it for as long as she so desired.

Definitely not bored.

He let the curtain fall silently back into place, remembering the task that was waiting for him.

* * *

Molly lost track of the amount of time she played, losing herself in the music as she had been doing since she was ten years old. She often found that two hours could easily pass without notice on her part and fortunately on this night she was not obligated to work next morning. When she had emerged from the fog of playing, she felt immensely purged. She stared at the ivory for several minutes, acutely feeling the tingling of her blood as it traveled through her body. The way Sherlock wound her up…

She banished the thoughts from her mind before the whole endeavor rendered itself useless. Tea would help, she decided. Tea always helped.

She flipped on the counter dimmers, leaving the rest of the room in darkness as she grabbed the kettle to fill with water. A creak in the floorboards behind her made her blood run cold, hands freezing mid motion.

Her heart thudded in her ears. She knew Sherlock's presence and this was not it. Keeping a tight hold on the teapot, hoping against hope that it would do for a suitable defense, she slowly turned to face whatever waited for her. In the dim lighting, she could make out the silhouette of a person in her entryway. She blinked hard, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness. Relief flooded her momentarily. She could swear it was…

"John? - "

The word died in her throat as the man bolted towards her, brandishing what she assumed was a military grade knife and raising it to her throat.

Water gushed from the teapot as her hand failed her and it plummeted to the floor.

"Why are you talking to Mycroft Holmes?" he growled, his body unnervingly close to hers, the bite of the knife a millimeter away from the skin below her jaw.

"I – I… he's a work colleague," she forced the words from her mouth, surprised she still possessed any level of speech at all.

"Don't lie to me, lass. We've seen his fancy cars driving circles around here."

"I don't know anything about that," she said truthfully. Other than the one visit, she had been blissfully unaware of Mycroft's movements. The man gave her an amused laugh.

"You go on pretending to be a puppet, then. In the meantime, you tell Mycroft to call off whoever he has dogging us. That was never part of the agreement. We kept to out word when his brother died, we expect him to do the same."

As he spoke, Molly caught movement over his shoulder. It took every effort in her body to track the movement and not telegraph that she was doing so. Fate smiled on her momentarily as the man stepped back, albeit keeping his arm outstretched and the knife's tip trained on her. The change in visual allowed her to see Sherlock standing directly behind him, his eyes burning with a look she had never seen before. He had silently laced a hand around the handle of a frying pan on the counter. With one flick of his eyes, he told her exactly what to do.

"You tell Mycroft - "

She never learned what message she was to relay. Fueled by pure adrenaline and a sudden remembrance of self-defense training she had years ago, Molly let her arm fly to connect with the sensitive nerves of the man's wrist. He recoiled in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. An instant later, the heavy pan rang a victory note as it connected with his head and he joined the knife.

Molly let out a breath that mingled with a cry and sagged against the counter, gripping its edges to stay up. Sherlock strode toward her, hand raised as though he wanted to brush her cheek but not quite making contact.

"Are you all right?" he asked hurriedly.

"I – I think so," she said breathlessly.

She saw his eyes take in every aspect of her being. Apparently satisfied, he turned his attention to restraining the unconscious man on her kitchen floor. Molly slowly edged away, wanting to place herself on the other side of the room from the killer who looked disturbingly like John. Halfway to the comfort of the opposite wall, Sherlock tossed his phone at her.

"Tell Mycroft to turn his car around to pick up a present," he instructed her. "Feel free to mention that his meddling almost got you hurt."

She did what he said, leaving out the bit about her brush with death.

"How did you know he was… how long were you here?" she asked uncertainly.

"A few minutes."

"A few minutes?" she wrinkled her nose. "Why didn't you do something sooner? Perhaps the moment he broke into my home?"

"That _was_ the plan," he said rather impatiently as he stood up and faced her. "I had not anticipated your presence, however, I had assumed you'd gone back to bed. Fortunately, I learned some valuable information from him before I had to knock him out."

"Are you putting me on?" she demanded. "You actually waited until he finished talking?"

"You'll recall I did not, in fact, let him finish. I needed to find out what he knew," he explained. "If he was still ignorant as to my being alive, it was more prudent to let another person be the catalyst for the information."

Molly squeezed her eyes shut, not believing what she was hearing.

"He held… a, a knife to my throat, Sherlock," she stammered.

"And I was right here the whole time," he said by way of reassurance. "You weren't in any danger, I wouldn't have allowed that to happen."

"That's not the point! You can't just do that to people, Sherlock," she said, her voice beginning to tremble. Every moment of manipulation and every bit of self worth she had lost over the last several years came pouring out of her and she was powerless to stop it. As she spoke, she firmly ignored the darkening look in his eye, knowing she was hitting home and yet desperate to return just a bit of the pain he'd inflicted over the years. "Y-you keep people around for their usefulness to you, keep them dragging after you because they can do something for you in the end. You like them, you obviously get annoyed if someone else waltzes in and threatens to take them away, but you find people who can provide the best resources to you and don't let them far enough away to have any higher priorities than _you_! Do you have any idea how cruel that is? W-why do you do it? You clearly need the attention, you need the relationships, but did, did anyone ever teach you how to treat people you consider important? It's certainly not by leading an assassin straight to their homes and gambling with their lives! Were you really that unloved as a child that you care so little for other people - "

"You really want to deduce each other, Molly?" he challenged, stepping closer to her. "Let's start with the dangerous desire you seem to have for death and darkness in your life. You put on this pretense of a plucky little mouse, but we both know you have a deep vein of masochism running in your body. Is it permanent? Mmm, difficult to say, but why else would you stick to St. Bart's and my cases like a fly to a web? No doubt begun by the long and painful loss of the only man to ever afford you any true devotion, abandoned by a too beautiful mother, enforced by two, no, three disappointing sexual partners and a general inability to feel anything on a normal level. Normalcy _bores_ you, which is why you bury yourself in your work and your books. You _need_ heightened experiences, death, extremities, because it's the only way to get your heart beating and you blood rushing."

Molly's chest was heaving by the time he finished. He was dangerously close to her and for once she stood solidly in his proximity.

"Are we still talking about me?" she prodded. "Because that sounds an awful lot like what gets _your_ blood rushing."

The silence that hung between them was suffocating to Molly, her eyes unable to look away from the intensity of his stare.

"Do you really think I care so little about you?" he asked her slowly, his voice nearly rumbling.

Her lips parted as she caught his eyes flit down to her mouth, a ripple of energy shooting down her spine as she suddenly realized where this was going.

"Sherlock…"

Whatever it was she planned on saying was lost in the recesses of her mind as his mouth lowered to hers. She couldn't stop the whimper that escaped her throat as his lips roughly toyed with her own. For someone she knew to be long out of practice, possibly never practiced, he was doing a bang up job of teasing electric sensations out of every part of her body from one long, demanding kiss that he seemed to have no intentions of ceasing. She knew they should stop, knowing logically it was the stress, the fighting, the injuries they had both sustained that was driving them to reach out to the closest thing possible for comfort. Yet, her heart was screaming loud that this was a long time coming and a long time needed. Her hand moved of its own accord up along the long line of his neck, his jaw, and wove her fingers into his dark curls. It seemed to spark something in him and as he pushed her back against the wall with his body, hands moving roughly against her hips, her heart won. She sucked in a deep breath when she felt his fingers gather up the fabric of her nightshirt, granting him access to the sensitive skin of her waist. Her body responded automatically, arching towards him like a magnet to its match.

A knock at the door made them both jump, his mouth ripping away from hers. He glanced towards the door with obvious irritation.

"That'll be Mycroft," he muttered. He looked back at her, lingering on her mouth, letting the shirt fall back into place. "You'll want to leave the room."

"Excuse me?"

"You have no trousers on, Molly," he explained patiently in response to her offense.

Her eyes widened in comprehension. She regretfully extracted herself from his arms and scurried up the stairs to make herself more presentable, taking the time to try to reduce the flush from snogging with Sherlock bloody Holmes in nothing but her nightshirt and panties with an unconscious assassin meters away. How had this become her life?

She decided to perch herself at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall, when she heard the commotion from downstairs. It was different from the one she'd stumbled upon before. Sherlock was doing a lot of yelling. Mostly about Mycroft's mistakes and intruding on Sherlock's territory, demanding he do a proper job of interrogation with this important individual. She heard her name tossed about and something about unnecessary danger. She allowed herself a small smile as she realized he was defending her.

After several minutes, she heard the door slam shut and Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. When he reached her, his blue-green eyes steadily met hers and he tenderly brushed his fingers along her jaw. She could really get used to this side of him… so long as he kept the assassins away from her doorstep from here on out.

"I'm not particularly keen to be alone tonight," she admitted quietly.

He wordlessly lowered his hand to hers and led her to her bedroom. She crawled under her sheets as she watched him shed his sweatshirt, leaving him in a grey t-shirt and jeans. His hands hesitated on the button to the jeans, looking to her. She gave a timid nod, granting him the comfort he sought. She barely caught a glimpse of his bare legs before he slid into the bed next to her, wrapping an arm across her middle and settling against the pillows.

Sleep was short lived as his phone chimed in the quiet just before dawn. He groggily reached for the device, reading the text. Molly felt him go unnaturally still.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"Moriarty's assassin," he murmured, replacing the phone on the night table. "He's dead."

"What?" she said, stunned.

"Cyanide pill," he told her, folding his hands across his stomach. "They got nothing out of him."

In the darkness, she could barely make out his expression. He seemed calm enough, but she could see the twinge of worry edging his eyes.

"I have to start over," he stated slowly. "Today."

"So soon?"

She was being selfish, she knew, but she couldn't help it. It was cruel, this state of their lives. Being so close to what they both needed and having it ripped away from their grasp.

She felt more than saw him lower his arm between them, opening his palm in invitation. Obliging, she laid her hand in his, memorizing the feeling of his fingers clinging tightly to hers.


	8. Chapter 8

In the lonely weeks that followed and ate at her, Molly clung tightly to the memories of that early morning lying in her bed, Sherlock's hand laced tightly in hers. She had wanted to drag him back under the covers with her when he finally stirred and began to gather his things, unable to crush the horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach as she watched him. She was afraid for a million reasons, the largest and most selfish being that she feared he would come to his senses and 'delete,' as he so delicately put it, the change in their relationship. Deleting the fight would have sufficed as she wished they hadn't been quite so raw with each other. Then again, sometimes things needed to be said and aired out before the air could become sweet again.

She'd stood awkwardly in the grey light of dawn as he stepped out of his room into the hallway, duffel bag flung over his shoulder.

"There's a good chance I won't be able to contact you," he offered her generously, not needing the prodding. "My sources have reliably led me to… well, not England."

She nodded her understanding of his discretion, giving him a weak smile. He hovered for a moment and Molly felt her stomach knot as she watched him visibly make the choice to pull back from her. She could practically see the walls of reason and logic being rebuilt in his mind. For a moment, she was ready to let him get away with it.

Before she could second guess herself, she stepped forward, grasping the edge of his jacket in her hand and pulling him down to her, pressing her mouth firmly to his. It took only a few seconds before she felt him sway into her and his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. The feeling was one she never wanted to surrender. She pulled back before she lost the ability to let him go at all, worry clenching around her heart.

"I'm sorry. I just had to… in case you change your mind."

She was too damn honest when she was sleep deprived.

"What would I change my mind about?" he asked, giving her a quizzical look.

She shrugged, looking sideways.

Her breath caught when he suddenly leaned in and captured her lips again briefly.

"I never make choices arbitrarily, Molly," he said firmly, looking intently into her eyes before pulling away and slipping down the stairs.

It wasn't exactly Tennyson, but the words clung to Molly every day for the three months since they were uttered. There had been so much more she wanted to say, wanted to ask. What had changed? Why had he chosen that moment, that insane moment, to shift everything between them?

Had he been hurt by what she had said?

Did he know he was unequivocally right about her?

Did he… _want_ her?

As had been the case many times before, the bacteria culture under her microscope gave her none of the answers she sought. She sat back from the eyepiece and chewed her lip, fighting back the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her mind. It wasn't simply her agony over those last few hours with him. She'd barely heard from him – twice in all of three months – and she lost precious sleep worrying or being woken from nightmares of Mycroft showing up at her door, delivering an ownerless deerstalker. John had been well, but in his recovery it had only become more torturous for her to lie. Watching him carry on with his new job as a physician, becoming closer with Mary, made her agonize over the eventual blow that would be Sherlock's resurrection and, with it, the revelation that she had been lying to him the whole time. If he had noticed her gradual withdrawal from their social events, vocalizing her desire to not intrude on his time with Mary, he hadn't bothered to say anything.

She rubbed her temple.

Mr. Hoyt's bacteria culture could wait until tomorrow.

After she had properly cleaned up, she quickly made her way home, looking forward to a warm meal and a little telly before bed. If she was lucky, her night would be dreamless.

She only half paid attention to the documentary on the excavation of a tomb in Egypt, too lost in thoughts about Sherlock, John, and Moriarty's network.

It took more than a few seconds to register the fact that she was not imagining the sound of a key in her front door. Her heart lurched and she sat up, straining to make sure. The door clearly opened and she heard a familiar pair of footsteps shuffle in, the door shutting again.

She stood up quickly, thoughts shooting in a thousand directions and not able to remember one single plan she had for the way she would greet him when she saw him again.

All thoughts scattered as soon as he walked into view, duffel bag slumped to the floor as he propped himself listlessly against her wall. The gaunt frame, matted hair, ashen skin, and unshaven face were mere background noise compared to the sight of the blood stain corrupting the fabric of his shirt in the space below his left collar bone and shoulder.

"Fuck, no," she breathed, rushing to him.

He weakly brushed her off, failing miserably to ease her worry.

"It went clean through…"

The words only chilled her. Pulling at the button down shirt and revealing his own crude bandages, she gently peeled away the gauze.

"You need stitches," she told him, looking up to see the extent of his injury reflected in his eyes. "And something for the pain."

"S'fine, Molly."

"You're not _fine_."

She felt vindicated in her decision to slowly acquire a more extensive medical kit in her home. She assessed, cleansed, and sutured, using every bit of training she had to remove herself from the fact that she was performing these procedures on the man she cared about more than anyone. He barely gritted his teeth, his eyes trained on her the whole time. It wasn't until she pulled out the syringe that he balked.

"Don't need it," he insisted, trying to stand from her kitchen chair.

"You're practically in shock."

"I don't want my mind blurred with it," he said, more harshly than he meant to. She looked at him, face firm.

"And you need at least a week to heal," she insisted, hovering over him. "What's one night of comfort and decent rest?"

He gazed up at her from heavily lidded eyes, wanting to fight but not finding the strength. Her own gaze was pleading.

"I don't want to see you in pain," she said softly. "Please."

His only response was to look away and offer up his good arm.

He fought the effects of the morphine the only way he knew how – remain silent. Silently accepting her help up the stairs, the fresh change of clothes she gathered, the look of deep concern she gave him before leaving him alone in his room.

She knew it was his only way of dealing with the whole shocking episode and she respectfully refrained from asking the questions that pounded in her mind. If he safely could, he would tell her in his own time what had led to this.

Her understanding didn't stop her from sinking down to the floor in the hall, biting her hand to keep her sobs from becoming too loud. In all the scenarios she had imagined of him coming back, this had been too close to the worst.

The door opening made her start. His hazy eyes looked down on her with a bit of scrutiny for a moment before he reached a hand out.

"I'm never going to get the rest you seem to think I need if you're out here weeping."

She gratefully took his offered hand and stood, following him into the guest room, _his_ room now, and sank down into the bed next to him. He lay on his back, eyes fixated on the ceiling and unmoving, but he didn't protest her small hands latching onto his uninjured one. Molly watched him with unwavering focus until she was certain he had fallen asleep, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest. She leaned forward carefully and placed a soft kiss on his shoulder.

* * *

"I have conferences this week on top of my usual work schedule and they've thrown me into guest lecturing in the lab," Molly babbled as she darted about the kitchen, overwhelming him with tea, juice, eggs, fruit, and a plethora of other foods she thought he might want.

Sherlock watched her calmly from his seat at the table, mellowed out from the morphine and the alien comfort he was suddenly finding in her presence. When he'd allowed himself to, every quiet moment he'd had in the last three months had been saturated with thoughts of Molly. He'd deliberately avoided contacting her, wanting to draw as much attention away from her as possible after the incident the night before he'd had to leave. He needed her to remain invisible to the network. Allowing Mycroft to keep a distant watch on her was the only accommodation he'd allowed his brother, receiving word every week on her status as well as John's.

At the mention of body parts, he realized he'd been tuned out to what she had been saying, too focused on her current state of being safe and alive. He tuned back in.

"… just leave Toby alone and I'm sure you'll get along just fine without me here. As I said, if you can manage that, I should be able to bring you something from the lab to keep you busy, just please, _please_ , keep it sanitary in my kitchen."

"Why would I need to be kept busy?" he asked, not to be so easily swayed by the promise of specimens. "Does it seem to you that I've finished what needs to be done?"

Her mouth pulled tight, again fighting the urge to demand to be told what exactly was going on.

"Sherlock, promise me you'll just stay put," she entreated. "You can use my computer to research, TV, I'll bring you whatever you need from the lab, just please stay put… You've been shot." Her voice broke, betraying the depth of her unsettled state. "You need to rest."

Amazingly, he listened, and since he held up his part of the bargain, she held up hers. A delivery of several specimens of the inner ear brought out the first small smile she'd seen on his face in a long time. He sent her to Bart's with samples that revealed pollen, diatoms, and soil samples that clearly meant something to him but were merely pegs without a board to her. Her geographical botany knowledge had never extended beyond England and she could only gather that he would be abroad again soon.

Physically, she kept her distance and followed his cue, much as she wanted to wrap her arms around him and feel the heat of his mouth again. Remarkably, he seemed to be craving her closeness as much as she was his. He'd looked at her curiously the second night as she passed his room by on her way to bed. She would never have expected him to vocalize any sort of request for company, as he'd found other excuses both times he'd sought her out, but the look of disappointment in his eyes was hard to miss. She'd backtracked quickly and easily took her place next to him in his bed.

On the fourth night, she'd retired long before him and was exceedingly relieved when he made his way straight to her room, her groggy mind allowing her to curl into his side gratefully as he slipped under her sheets. She shot awake when she felt his lips press firmly against her forehead, her cheek, and then her lips. Her heart fluttered hopelessly, satisfied at the contact she'd been craving.

"It was in Munich…"

She stilled as he buried his face against the side of her head, whispering the details of the shooting, her hand tracing comforting patterns along his side as he spoke, the contact as much for her reassurance as for his. She listened quietly as he relayed the information that gave her hope – he was close, so close to being finished.

Unable to let the terrible thoughts of danger be the last thing she experienced before sleep, she brought her mouth to his in the silence after his words. He kissed her deeply, gripping blindly at her side before pulling away and burying his face once more in the crook of her neck. Molly knew he was fighting for control – of his mind, his body, the circumstances of the hunt.

As a week passed, she saw him reeling that control tightly and she knew it would only be a matter of time until she was watching him leave again, launching into the abyss that was his crusade. She'd felt the shift in her role as acutely as the shift in their relationship. She was no longer his replacement for John, no longer the assistant he proclaimed he needed. The snap of danger had come too close for him and she'd been relegated to being protected right along with John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. It wasn't even an option for her to help more than running a few lab samples – exactly what she'd expected from the beginning, but for different reasons. Their little romp as crime fighting partners was over.

The night she knew he was gearing to leave, she became preoccupied with fussing over his supplies. She grabbed his bag from its spot in the hall and hauled it to her bed, darting back and forth from the bathroom with first aid supplies, antibiotics in case of infection in his wound, mild painkillers, and a host of other things she knew he would protest.

He watched her quietly – he'd been too quiet all week – as he leaned against her bedroom wall.

"Molly," he finally spoke. She didn't look up, attempting to find a way to cram one more roll of gauze into the bag. "Molly…"

The pleading tone caught her attention.

The upturned hand he held out was all the invitation she needed. She crossed the room, bypassing his hand in favor of wrapping her arms tightly around his middle, face pressing into the warmth of his chest right above his heart. He hesitated only a moment before his arms wound around her, one hand entwining in her hair.

She breathed in his scent, a combination of baby powder and pine. Not content with that sense alone, she lifted her hands to his face and ran her fingers over his now smooth jaw. He watched her intensely, nowhere near relinquishing his hold on her. When simply feeling him wouldn't suffice, she pulled his head down and claimed his mouth. The taste of coffee and tobacco filled her and she couldn't even bring herself to be mad at him for giving in to his addiction. His hand tangled at the base of her neck, keeping her in place, not that she would have moved for anything in the world.

If his wound was irritated by the way she pushed him into the wall, drowning in the fierceness of his kiss, he said nothing. Nipping at his lower lip drew a low groan from his throat and a sharp awareness of the answer to a question that had lingered in her mind for three months – he _did_ want her. Molly responded by pressing closer into his body, deciding that no matter how many times she was able to be with him like this, it would never be enough. Every kissed begged more, every touch brought a new itch, and she knew there would be no going back with Sherlock Holmes.

His hands gripped at her hips with bruising force, holding her against the rapidly insistent push of his own. Her hands slid away from his neck, fingers finding the apex of his shirt.

Molly slowly undid each button, kissing his chest as she drew the fabric away and over his shoulders. Running a gentle hand over his healing skin, she swallowed the horrendous thought of how close she had been to losing him. As her hand traveled over his chest, she could feel his heart drumming and it made hers beat all that much faster. Almost timidly, she grazed her nails down his torso and let them come to rest on the buckle of his belt. Her fingers delicately began to undo the buckle and she was startled when his hands flew to her wrists and stilled her actions. She looked up at him and saw him breathing heavily, his head back against the wall and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He looked… scared.

It hit her like lightening.

"Sherlock," she began gently. "You've never… have you?"

He simply looked down at her, silently begging her to see the answer in his eyes without him having to speak it out loud. It wasn't something he intentionally kept secret, but it served him well to let the subject remain… ambiguous. He'd never allowed himself to be in a situation of revelation on the topic, never wanting to risk needing to explain, to deflect the mocking (Adler had covered that territory well enough) or worse, the pity. Molly showed neither reaction in her face.

For her part, Molly was slightly shocked. She had always assumed the rumors she heard circulating were merely malicious gossip.

"Why?" she asked innocently, stunned that this man, this gorgeous, fascinating man had never… that women had not broken down his door to… on second thought, she was rather grateful that was not the case.

"I've been married to my work, Molly, you know that about me," he said softly, but firmly. "I took that vow on like a priest. It's as simple as that."

His breathing was ragged and he looked on the verge of tears. Almost not knowing what to do with a tearful Sherlock, she went on instinct. Breaking a hand away from his grasp, she reached up to cup his cheek, her heart hurting for him as he leaned into her touch as though it were the first time someone had been that loving with him.

"Would you like me to help you break that vow for a little while," she asked, giving him a small, intriguing smile. "I promise I'll be careful with you."

He stared hard into her eyes, searching. All that he had done in the past, all the choices made in his personal life had been for the sole purpose of solving cases, keeping everything around him pure and open. For keeping his friends safe. He was a dead man now with a silent vendetta to carry out in the cover of darkness – what did vows matter now when the woman who had been stirring his soul for quite some time was in his arms, offering him a reprieve, a high? He drew a deep breath, feeling the scale tip in his mind, knowing that the moment, the _moment_ , he lost himself in her, he would not be able give her up.

"That's what worries me," he said, his voice humming low as he pulled her closer to him. "I'm afraid I won't be."

Her spine tingled and she placed a single kiss on his throat, enjoying the hitch of his breath at the action.

"That's fine, too." She pulled back from him and began backing towards the bed, pulling him along with one hand. His eyes had darkened with desire considerably and he threw a curious look in her direction. "Do you remember the first time I asked you out… for coffee? You were looking for bruising patterns for an alibi… the riding crop…"

She reached the bed and climbed onto the mattress, kneeling to put herself at eye level with him. He moved into her touch, dragging his hands up her thighs to come to rest on her hips.

"You turned me on, Sherlock," she murmured, only slightly embarrassed. "Your assessment of me was quite right…"

His eyes burned into hers for a few moments before he leaned forward and began placing fierce kisses against her throat, shoulder, anywhere he could reach, fingers dipping under the hem of her sweater to yank it over her head. Her arms wound around his shoulders and she clung on for support as the sensations began to overwhelm her.

"So tell me, Molly," he practically purred against her skin, the sound of his arrogant confidence creeping back into his voice and pushing them back into sparring territory. "When do we get to play with your riding crop?"

"You snoop," she smiled, gasping as he nipped at her pulse point.

"And your handcuffs?"

"Only for special occasions."

"And the - "

"Only for _very_ special occasions and only if you ask nicely," she laughed, trailing off as she realized he had stopped his exploration of her flesh.

"Was _he_ ever here?" Sherlock asked, his face hidden in the crook of her neck. Her heart wrenched that he would even be worried about such a thing.

"Never," she told him firmly. "We never…"

Her words were cut off as he brought his lips firmly to hers, arm wrapped around her waist as he lowered her gently onto the bed, covering her body with his. She lost herself in his kisses and the feel of his hands exploring every curve of her body. Somewhere along the way, she barely remembered how, the rest of their clothes found their way to the floor and he took his time learning her body, deducing her every nerve with the same skill he used to uncover every other secret of the world. It was all she could do not to hurry things along, nearly drunk with the joy that this moment was finally happening, but she knew the importance of letting Sherlock work in his own time.

Eventually, Sherlock kissed his way back up to her mouth and hovered over her, shaking. She reached up and ran her fingers through his beautiful hair, seeking to give him reassurance.

"Molly, do you need me to… I don't, I don't typically carry… protection," he said, as guilty as she'd ever seen him look. She shook her head.

"IUD," she told him. "Nothing to worry about. And the only thing I need right now is you."

The groan of pleasure that escaped his lips as he sank into her was nearly enough to undo her right then and there. His head dropped heavily onto her shoulder and he clung to her body for dear life, rocking into her gently. She could feel him trembling, feel him holding tightly to the control he cherished. She slid her arms across his shoulders, placing a kiss on his temple.

"Let go," she murmured. "Sherlock, just let it all go."

It was all the coaxing he needed. She felt his instinct take over and closed her eyes in pleasure as he dragged his lips along her neck and jaw, caressing her lips in between groans. She briefly registered that his grip on her would all too likely leave bruises, but at the moment all she felt was the pleasure. It had been a long time for her and soon she was gripping at his shoulders, his hair, trying to refrain from leaving teeth marks on his skin. She could feel his movements growing erratic, taking her right long with him, and she cried out as she felt him finally release inside of her, his deep moans reverberating through her body. Minutes passed and the only sound in the room was their breath being reeled back into control. She felt his hands lace through her long hair, winding strands around his fingers as he lifted his head to place his forehead against hers.

"Molly," he hummed, his voice impossibly low. "Thank you."

She opened her mouth to protest, wanting him to know it wasn't just a favor to her. He silenced her with a deep kiss.

"No, truly," he went on. "Thank you. For everything. For being… more than I could ever deserve."

It hurt how sincere the statement was. For all his genius, he truly believed he was unworthy of love and affection, of unconditional help. Would he ever understand that his abilities, his intensity, was exactly what made him worthy to her?

When he released her from the weight of his body, she placed a deep kiss on his mouth before slipping off to the loo to freshen up. Crawling back into bed, she realized he must have done the same as his mouth tasted like mint when he leaned over for another kiss before settling against her, bare legs entwining and his arm wrapped possessively around her waist. He brought his forehead to rest on the top of her head and after a few minutes she heard his breathing begin to even out.

"My Molly," he murmured into her hair.

In the morning, he was gone. She allowed herself to roll over in the bed, muffling her cries in the pillow that still held his scent.


	9. Chapter 9

 

For months, they orbited in a constant pattern of separation and joining. She would go to bed alone and sometime in the night she would feel the dip of the mattress, the warmth and firmness of his lean body finding its fit against her. Days later, he would give her a look that meant he needed to disappear for an unknown amount of time. She would smile sadly and make him promise to let her know he was alive. Sometimes he brought injuries that needed her hands; more often than not he brought something for her to take to the lab to analyze. She fixed both. It became easier when a visit with Mrs. Hudson exposed her desire to tidy up the flat. Under the guise of her own scientific interests, she slowly acquired his equipment and had a fully functioning lab in her kitchen within a month. She had learned his being well enough to recognize the look that took over his face and meant he would be focused on puzzles and webs until he made a connection. When she wasn't at work, she helped him put the pieces together.  


Most every night, he would find his way into her bed, or she into his, his celibacy traded for the worship of her body. For some reason, they continued under the pretense that they still belonged in separate rooms. She never argued with the arrangement, never tried to make her space his, fearful that if she pushed too hard he would feel that she was reining him in. Despite his teasing their first night together, they never included anything she kept hidden away in her bedroom. It never seemed right. The sex was usually passionate, desperate, occasionally rough, but the mood never fell into the realm of… playful. Molly found herself thinking that when everything was over, when it all went back to normal, maybe she would surprise him one night. These thoughts usually led to the sinking feeling that 'back to normal' would be just that… and she would have to let go.

From time to time, he stared at her until seeming to make a decision, interrupting whatever task she was currently undertaking (she noticed it usually involved her doing something domestic and 'boring' while wearing very little) and leading her by the hand into the office. He would sit her down at the piano, positioning the bench the wrong way so he could place himself behind her. The soft touch of his hands fascinated her as they rested atop hers while she played, ghosting along her fingers as she found every melody from Mozart to Gershwin. He would lean into her shoulder, muttering hypotheses for the whereabouts of the last assassin interspersed with whispers of his appreciation for her. She was beyond quelling the thrill she felt at his words, allowing herself to fall hopelessly further in love with him.

As the weather grew colder, the nights without him became even lonelier. She forced herself to begin socializing again when Mary had teased her in front of John that she must have a new boyfriend and that was the reason she had been so reclusive. The odd look John had given her had made her heart quicken.

"New boyfriend?" she laughed nervously. "Oh God no. No. Just, just caught up in work."

She accepted the invitation to the Christmas Eve party at Mary and John's new flat to prove her supposed state of singledom. The glass of wine had been her company for most of the night, hovering on the edge of the frivolity and avoiding being trapped in a moment alone with John. She had happily escaped when other party goers began to disperse for the night, offering a quick goodbye to her increasingly confused friends.

The cold air bit at her cheeks as she stepped out of the taxi in front of her home and she nestled further down into her scarf. As she approached her door, she looked up to see his silhouette tucked into the corner of her stoop. Despite the ski cap, scarf wound tightly over most of his face, and the military style coat that nearly swamped him, she recognized his form instantly. She was about to question why he was waiting outside in the cold when she smelled the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. He dutifully respected her wish to keep it out of her home.

She glanced about before joining him, not saying a word as she melted into his warm embrace, trapping him between her body and the brick of her building. He dipped his head to place a soft kiss just below her ear.

"You two are getting careless."

Sherlock's hands pulled tightly at her at the sound of his brother's voice. Molly glanced over her shoulder, guessing that the town car must have just appeared. She stepped away a little to allow Sherlock to face Mycroft.

"And you're getting to be a bit of a nuisance," Sherlock droned, shoving his hands in his pockets. Mycroft gave him a humoring smile.

"Let's just say we're even, then," he responded, taking the first few steps and retrieving an envelope from his coat. "I've brought you a Christmas present."

"Oh, God," Sherlock groaned.

"It's one you'll like, I assure you," Mycroft said as he handed the envelope over. "It was accompanied with a note: 'To complement the Reichenbach,' it said."

Sherlock opened the flap and pulled out a folded paper. Molly peered over his shoulder as he unfolded it, revealing a 'U' written in black pen. She looked up to see his face drawn in intense concentration.

"Clearly addressed to me, but it seems the messenger knows a bit more than he should, does it not?" Mycroft said to Molly, ignoring his brother, lost to analyzing as he was. She said nothing, merely glancing at Sherlock and shifting a touch closer to him. Mycroft looked between the two of them before shaking his head and settling his gaze back to Molly. "I'd never guessed you would be the one."

She blushed hard. Of all the times Mycroft had known too much about her life in the last ten months, she had never felt as violated as she had in that moment. Sherlock's eyes shot up from the paper, dangerously cold.

"Sod off, Mycroft," he snarled.

Mycroft appeared sincerely startled, but recovered quickly. He fixed Sherlock with a look of pessimism.

"Your exile has made you weak, Sherlock," he said sharply. "You've forgotten every lesson I've ever taught you."

They watched him back down the stairs and immediately round on the car to make a retreat. Sherlock waited until the car was out of sight before ushering Molly inside, both of them shedding their extraneous layers. He flopped into his favored chair, still staring at the paper as though it held more than just a single letter to be deciphered. Still feeling slightly chilled, Molly set to work starting a cozy fire, secretly celebrating the fact that he had returned to her for Christmas. He probably hadn't even remembered what day it was until Mycroft had brought it up, but she didn't care. His presence on what was usually a lonely night for her was all she needed.

With the fire roaring, she took her place in the chair opposite him, fighting the urge to ask him which lessons Mycroft seemed to think were currently being neglected. It made her blood boil slightly to think that his own brother could be responsible for the dearth of affection in his life; that he had been purposefully taught that love was a bad thing. After several minutes, Sherlock sighed heavily and tossed the paper to the ground, opting to place his chin atop his fingers and stare into the crackling flames.

"So John's become domesticated," he stated, enunciating each syllable of the last word with a bit of sarcasm.

She smiled.

"It would seem so," she said.

"Mmm," he replied, making a face. "Poor man."

"Yes, I'm sure it's such rot having to live with a woman who lo- " she stopped herself mid tease, clearing her throat as she altered her language nervously. "Wh-who cares about you."

She caught his eyes slide in her direction momentarily, expression unreadable. She looked down at her hands, winding her fingers together anxiously. For all they had engaged in, had experienced, that was a line that had not been crossed. She was terrified of what the result would be.

"Anyway," she continued, overly cheerful. "Can I assume by this conversation that you're not… going anywhere at the moment?"

"Where would I be going?" he inquired.

She indicated the paper.

"Mind palace? Or… elsewhere?"

"No, Molly," he said dully, looking back to the fire. "I'm not 'going' anywhere."

The corners of her mouth lifted. He was moody, but she had his full attention. She quickly stood up from her chair and padded to the hall closet, opening it to retrieve something she had been keeping since her last visit to Baker Street. Molly could barely contain her smile as she approached Sherlock, knowing she was doing a poor job of hiding the item behind her back. He looked at her suspiciously.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she beamed, producing the violin case from behind her back.

She had not seen him so surprised since the day in Bart's when she told him she didn't count.  _What a long time ago that seems_ , she thought absently. He stood slowly and made his way over to her, placing a tentative hand on the case as though making sure it was real. He gingerly took it from her, setting it on the coffee table to open. She watched him pick up the instrument and bow, plucking experimentally at the strings to test their tuning. As she watched, a suspicion she had was confirmed – his hands handled the violin the same way they handled her. She'd been dying to know…

He suddenly glanced up at her, tucking the instrument under his arm as he made his way across the room to his coat.

"You've reminded me," he muttered as he fished something out of a pocket.

Returning to her, he handed over a cubic box wrapped in green and decorated with a cheerful red bow. The smile that graced her face set a proud one on his, clearly pleased with himself for the gesture. She tore carefully at the wrapping and opened the box, pulling out a creamy porcelain music box. Tipping back the lid, a small mouse spun slowly to the waltzing tune.

"It's from Salzburg," he nearly beamed. "Flummoxed two henchmen in order to get into that shop. It plays the Landler."

"I know," she agreed softly as the tune filled the air, too many emotions welling up in her chest. She looked up into his eyes, not surprised to see them darkening in a familiar way that made her breath quicken.

"Obviously one of your favorites. The sheet music is practically worn to bits, you might consider buying a new booklet." He paused. "You… sometimes play that song after I've kissed you," he murmured, looking embarrassed to admit such a sentimental thing.

Color rushed to her cheeks and she lifted herself on tiptoe to reach his lips, conveying her gratitude. She pulled away and gave him a grin, looking eagerly down at her new treasure as she wound the key again, setting the tune lilting through the air once more. She was rewarded with a smile from him, just crinkling the corners of his eyes. He pulled the violin from beneath his arm and set it to his shoulder, testing a few matching notes. Molly settled back in her chair as she watched him move closer to the fire, his trained ear picking out the tune to play along sweetly.

"Excellent present, Molly," he congratulated her. His eyebrows raised in a teasing expression. "Almost better than the spyglass from last year. Don't know how you managed to remember the conversation about pirates, it was nearly three years ago."

She smiled and tucked her chin down, grateful that the only mention of last Christmas was the revelation that he had indeed opened her gift, liked it, and kept it. Looking up, she absorbed the sight of him, lightly coaxing the melody from the violin, at perfect ease in her home. She bit her lip, allowing herself to pretend that they would get to end every day from here on out just like this, with no haunting messages crowding the edges of her vision.

* * *

The day he stared into the face that had been a key in his downfall, he was surprised to find that his mind was not as clear as he had expected. Contrary to being a detriment, it had simply focused him more. He thought of John – wonderful John, his friend, the first person who had not been repelled in some way by the way he operated. His best friend and the most fun he'd ever had with another human being on his cases, sharing a flat, romping around like a couple of school mates. Mrs. Hudson – the mother he had always wanted: loving, gentle, and secretly nearly as sassy as he was. Lestrade – his first real champion at Scotland Yard, allowing him to pursue the cases that kept him going.

He thought of Molly – the woman who loved him despite his best efforts to put her off, intrigued by her intelligence but reliably finding his defenses going up at every single turn. Annoyed every time he thought another man was sniffing around. And over the last year, his savior in more ways than he could count.

He thought of all of them as his mirror image loomed in the sickening light of the parking garage. He pushed down his typical attempts to find every aspect of the man that would remove the similarity, not wanting to waste the time on any detail that wasn't essential.

Weakened right elbow: broken and not healed correctly.

Veins in the eyes visible: sleep deprived.

Fluid and blood encrusted in his left ear: eardrum blown out, balance impaired.

Shoes covered in mud and grass: extensive amount of time on foot, legs exhausted.

He smiled and silently thanked Molly for pushing every meal on him, making every night easy to sleep through.

The fight was not long and he came out of it with the fortune of a broken rib and cut cheek. His opponent no doubt suffered a fractured skull from being thrown into a concrete pillar, hitting the ground with an impressive thud. Sherlock put a knee to the man's back and zip tied his hands, roughly rolling him over to face him. He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the paper that had been burning against his side for nearly three months.

"Why did you send this?" he demanded, shoving the note in the man's face. "Did you know, or was it a lucky guess?"

The man spit out blood, eyes unfocused.

"You know what it means," he rasped out.

"I.O.U., Moriarty and his damn games! I  _solved_  the riddles!" Sherlock shouted, shoving the man into the ground before standing up. "You just  _had_  to let Mycroft know his network was getting too close, not knowing you were telling  _me_. Letting me know the threat was still there because of what Moriarty promised."

"You…" the man choked out, close to loosing consciousness. Sherlock could hear the sirens in the distance. Mycroft had been thorough this time.

" _Me_ ," Sherlock replied, giving a spiteful smile. "It's always been me you've been running from."

He could see the flash of lights beam down the driveway of the garage. He glanced back at the man.

"And now you get to go play with my big brother," he told him, darting away from the scene and into the safety of shadow.

Not bothering to stay and watch, Sherlock made his way through London to the alley near Mycroft's office, working off the remaining adrenaline that coursed through his system. He sent one text to his brother.

_No mistakes this time!_

_None whatsoever_ _MH_

He habitually patted his pockets, angry at himself for leaving the last of his cigarettes in his bag. Glancing about anxiously, he settled against the cold stone of the building and tilted his head back before closing his eyes. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, feel every nerve twinge, every muscle contract and release. He needed a room –  _the_  room, the one he had kept shut for most of the past year. The one that held every happy memory with John, every laugh with Mrs. Hudson, every kiss and caress with Molly. The memories began to soothe him like a balm and he explored for an unknown amount of time until he heard his phone.

_It's done MH_

He let out the breath he had been holding.

* * *

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with a baffled expression.

"I don't know why you're upset," his brother said, settling back into his chair as he sipped at a glass of brandy. "This is all very good news for you."

"Yes, yes, he's confessed, but he's adamant there was no one higher?" Sherlock pushed.

"Moran is the last of the network, Sherlock. We can attest to that with our own corresponding information."

"And we all know how reliable that is," Sherlock muttered, tugging at the strings of his sweatshirt in frustration. "I was certain…how could I get that wrong?"

Mycroft furrowed his brow.

"And here I thought you would be happy to have this over and done," he said. "Going back to solving cases, being friends with John Watson, perhaps even continuing a 'normal' relationship with Doctor Hooper."

"Don't you dare say a word about her," Sherlock warned. "You've done enough there."

Mycroft's expression shifted to one of genuine interest.

"Can it be?" he asked softly. "Despite everything you know to be true about it, you've learned to love?"

Sherlock shot daggers at him, knowing full well he was only giving Mycroft more evidence with his display of defense. He couldn't help it – it was knee-jerk. His brother gave him a tight smile.

"As of this night, you've returned to the land of the living, Sherlock Holmes," he said. "My deepest sympathies."

* * *

He took his time returning to her house. Not that he wasn't eager to fall into the comfort of her arms and her body after a long, solitary month or indulge in one of the egg and sausage sandwiches she always made for him upon his return (he'd never admit to how much he enjoyed them). On the contrary, he was exceptionally eager.

She had become the ease in the snarled tapestry of the last year, the best habit he'd ever formed.

Molly had woken something in him that, for the better part of his adult life, he had been sure would be his ruin, the demise of his brilliance as a consulting detective. Color him surprised that she had started his heart beating the same way she did everything else – thoroughly, unobtrusively, and with unwavering support for everything that he was. It had taken him a long time for his brilliant mind to grasp the idea that support and companionship in all its forms was not something to be scoffed at.

But now his crusade was over and in the morning they would be returning to life as usual.

He considered what that meant.

Cases.

Baker Street without John.

The damned publicity.

The inevitable disappointment he would be sure to rain down on her as he slid onto the track of his old life.

He had no frame of reference for how to handle any sort of relationship outside the little world they had created for themselves inside her home. He had no door to open inside his mind, no reserve of information to pull upon to even pretend to understand how to proceed.

Realizing his surroundings, he found that his musings had finally brought him to her building.

No more time to contemplate.

In spite of the late hour, he found her sitting in her chair, book propped against her knees. She spared a concerned look for the cut on his cheek before launching herself at him, arms wrapping tightly about his middle.

"Oomph."

He'd forgotten the broken rib, body too hyped on other chemicals from the evening's events to let the pain through. She pulled away immediately, apologizing. Stepping back, she began to offer food and tea. He barely listened, suddenly finding that the only thought on his mind was pulling her back to him, to hell with the pain.

He reached out a hand and grasped at her wrist, dragging her back and sinking his lips onto hers. Her breath drew in loudly, her body becoming pliable in his arms. This had been his favorite aspect to discover about Molly – she changed from the wound ball of nerves he'd always observed to what could only be described as lithe and fluid. Savvy.

"You're hungry, you need to eat," she murmured against his mouth as he ran his hands insistently under the hem of her shirt (covered in a pattern of  _dragonflies_ , of all things – her style both frustrated and endeared him).

"How could you possibly know that?" he asked, lowering his mouth to the sensitive skin of her neck.

"I always know," she replied breathlessly.

"It can wait."

"You're hurt," she tried again.

He knew she was just being attentive, but honestly…

"Do shut up, Molly, I'm trying to make love to you…"

If she noticed the word that had slipped without permission from his lips, she gave no indication as he pulled her to the sofa, clothes scattering rapidly as she settled onto his lap. They had enjoyed languid, exploratory times together in her bed, content with the feel of their bodies in comfortable tandem.

This was not one of those times.

He strained anxiously at even the thin fabric of his pants, desperate for her hands to remove them. He bit at the flesh at the base of her neck as she did so, hands positioning her hips roughly over him. Another pleasant, well, not  _surprise,_  as he'd observed correctly that she would no doubt enjoy a fight for dominance, but still pleasant to test out.

He groaned against her skin as he felt her hand wrap around him, guiding him into her as she lowered herself. His eyes closed at the sensation of her around him, hips lifting involuntarily towards her. The time away had worn too hard at him and he wanted nothing more than the remedy of her body and her soul.

She worked her hips almost urgently against him, her head tucked into the corner of his neck and the fingers of one hand wrapped tightly in his hair, forcing his head back. In a matter of minutes he felt her breath hitching and the spasm of her muscles around him, throwing him into his own mind numbing release.

When he could see straight again, he pulled the knit blanket from the back of the sofa and held onto her as he shifted and lowered them onto the cushions. She settled contentedly next to him, nose pressed against his chest as he covered them with the blanket.

Minutes passed as he drew shapeless designs on her lower back with his fingers.

"It's over."

Her head lifted to meet his gaze, eyes wide.

"You idiot, why didn't you tell me that the moment you walked in?"

Another wonderful discovery about Molly over the past year – she had her fair share of uncouth moments. It made him smile.

"You were a more appealing subject to focus on," he said.

"Tell me," she insisted.

He sighed. She wasn't in the mood to play.

"Last man was caught tonight. He's confessed to a level sufficient to Mycroft's liking," he explained. "Tomorrow… everything goes back to normal."

He tried to ignore how still she went in his arms.

He slept lightly and was easily woken when she withdrew from his embrace, grabbing his button down to pull on and padding over to the window seat. Choosing to observe her for a few moments, he took in her stooped shoulders and lowered head, concerned at the return of her old body language. The sniffle spurred him into action.

He sat opposite her, blanket tucked somewhat modestly about his hips. She wiped furiously at her eyes as he watched her and he knew she was trying to hide it for his sake. Unsure what words would be best, he simply waited.

"I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop," she said suddenly, her voice surprisingly strong despite the emotions choking her. "I know I don't get to keep… this."

Her words stung. Whether for the hurt place they came from or the wrenching possibility that it was the truth, the prick was acutely painful. He swallowed deeply and let his gaze travel away from the sight of her flushed face, concentrating on some random tree across the street. Its still branches cruelly offered little distraction and he let his head tip forward to come to rest on the cold glass of the window.

"I'm not good at relationships, Molly," he murmured, unsure what he could elaborate on to make her feel better. "Though this… has been the closest I've ever come to being successful at the attempt."

"I know…Sherlock, I know," she sighed heavily, drawing his eye again. "If for some miraculous reason life were utterly fair and I could keep you forever, I would in a heartbeat. But if this is all I'm allowed to have… this moment in time… I knew what this could turn out to be. I'm not stupid."

"No, you're not."

The conviction of his statement startled her. No hesitation, no sense of irony at all, he looked at her with steady eyes and gave her everything she ever wanted in three words – his reverence for her being. The weight of the world seemed momentarily lifted from her shoulders and she wavered between smiling and crying. Her skin tingled as he slid a hand up along her calf, reaching for the hands clasped tightly around her knees. She allowed him to pull her to him, thighs settling on either side of his hips as his hands splayed across her back.

"Do you know what I fear, Molly?" he asked her quietly. She hummed her curiosity against his shoulder, no longer finding herself surprised when he voiced his inner thoughts, but always attentive when he did. "I fear that I'll shatter you. That somewhere along the way you'll want normality and I won't be able to give it to you…"

"Since when have I ever wanted normality?"

"Everybody does, eventually."

The unspoken exclusion of himself in the statement was obvious to Molly. A long silence passed between them. Her hips squirmed a bit as she felt him stirring beneath her.

They made love most of the night, words few and far between as they approached the dawn and his resurrection.

* * *

Molly went to the coat closet under her stairs and ceremoniously pulled out a dry cleaning bag, bringing it to him. She carefully lifted the plastic and discarded it along with the hanger, holding the coat out for him. He reached out a tentative hand to take hold of the fabric, soft and familiar to him.

"Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes," she smiled.

* * *

She was doing a piss poor job of hiding her nerves as she led John along the street, desperately grateful that the small lie she had told him had worked. Things of his left over at Baker Street - "What things?" – that needed going through and Mrs. Hudson wasn't able to do it – "Her hips bothering, you see" – and it really would be so helpful if he could come with her. He griped as they climbed the stairs.

"I don't understand what we're doing that absolutely has to be done here and can't be done somewhere else…"

John's voice died the moment he stepped into the doorway and caught sight of Sherlock standing by the window, back to them and fussing with his violin. Molly thought she saw John sway a little and prepared herself to try as best she could to catch him should the need arise. A choked sound escaped his lips as Sherlock turned around, placing his instrument on its holder and stepping into the center of the room.

"Molly tells me you're getting married," he said evenly. "What on earth possessed you to do a thing like that?"

She shot him a look she  _knew_  he understood meant that was not a good thing to say. The slight crinkle of his brow gave that away. Before she could manage any more than a look, John had bolted from her side and for half a second she thought he was running to embrace his friend, overcome with joy. Apparently, Sherlock had the same impression, until she saw his face contort in surprise as John barreled into him, knocking him to the ground. She stood by helpless as John landed a solid punch to Sherlock's face, following it with several blows to his shoulders and arms.

"A whole year you let me believe you were  _dead_!"

"I did it to keep you alive!" Sherlock yelped, deflecting the blows and trying to turn out from under John's weight and crawl away. "You never really believed I was dead, anyway!"

"Sod off!" John shouted, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's upper chest as he kept him from escaping. "Believing and knowing are two different things, you selfish idiot! And you  _had_  to drag poor Molly into your  _stupid_ scheme as well!"

"Oh, p-please don't bring me into this," she interjected from the sidelines.

"I do apologize, John, is that what you want to hear?"

"That'll do for a start!" John bellowed, tightening his grip. "And don't you think for one bloody second this lets you off the hook for being best man in the wedding!"

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock took the bag of ice Molly shoved into his hand, glancing at John sitting next to him on the sofa to watch his reaction as she forced one on him, too.

"Now you boys are going to sit there and have a proper chat without doing any more damage," she instructed firmly. "I am  _tired_  of patching up injuries. I'm going to check on Mrs. Hudson, make sure she hasn't wound herself up into shock."

The two men looked after her as she made her way out of the flat. John tentatively put the ice on his cracked knuckles. He glanced at Sherlock.

"When did she become..."

"I do believe she's always been that way, just been too thick to notice," Sherlock offered. He gingerly applied the ice to his bruising cheek, looking firmly ahead. "Don't hold her accountable for any of this, she was simply doing what was asked of-"

"Wouldn't dream of it," John cut him off with a serious tone of finality on the subject. A moment of silence passed, both looking at the flat they knew by heart. John cleared his throat, brow furrowed. "So what have you been up to, then?"

Sherlock looked over and when he met John's eye, the most familiar, warming feeling hit him. He saw the slight quirk of his friend's lip and couldn't stop the corners of his own mouth from lifting. Moments later, they were both laughing, a feeling Sherlock had been uncertain at times that he would feel again. Molly had made him laugh, of course, but there was always the edge of sadness to anything that had occurred over the last year.

"You'd better stop it, they'll think we've lost our minds up here," John chuckled.

"You're laughing, too."

"Your voice carries more," John wiped at his eyes, sighing. His brow lowered a bit. "In all seriousness, Sherlock,  _what_  have you been doing?"

He told him all he could, about his 'suicide,' Moriarty's promise to kill his friends, his mission to track down and destroy the rest of the network, and how the assassin in custody would lead to their exoneration in the kidnappings. He told him of Molly's help, but out of respect for her and a nagging uncertainty in his brain, he left out every personal detail of their time together.

"She spent a year lying for you, helping you, and keeping you alive?" John asked. Sherlock pulled his lower lip tight, looking away. John shook his head. "You owe her dinner, mate."

_I owe her more than that…_

"So when is the wedding?"

"Two weeks," John told him. "Mary's lovely. You'll like her, she'll set you right on your pompous ass the moment she meets you."

Sherlock grinned at that.

"Are you going to make me wear a bloody top hat and tails?"

"If you're lucky. I should make you wear a sign that says 'I lied to my best friend because I'm a massive wanker,'" John smirked.

"Oh God, you're never going to let it go, are you…"

* * *

The media went into a delirium when the details of Sherlock's story became public. If he had been popular before, he became a downright icon when the press unleashed the whole sensational tale.

Molly made sure to be present when he returned to the Yard, biting back a smile as he waltzed right passed Anderson and Donovan with John at his side. She saw the self-satisfied turn of his mouth, even if no one else seemed to. Despite his proclamations that he could care less about what people thought, she knew he'd been waiting his whole life to outdo the cool kids. She knew the feeling all too well.

Lestrade had stared at him with stunned gratitude before pulling him into a quick hug, muttering something about undoing the death certificate not being his division.

From that moment on, she'd stayed put in the mortuary and lab. Her job had been secured by Mycroft flexing his power and insisting she had been ignorant of the whole situation, tricked by falsified evidence planted by Mycroft's team. She suspected a bit of brotherly arm-twisting had been involved there, finding it hard to believe Mycroft held her in enough esteem to volunteer the effort.

As for the press, she'd never liked too much attention and the frenzy around Sherlock was enough to encourage her distance. She also suspected that the last thing he needed was a snapshot of the two of them at Baker Street, God forbid in a compromising situation, plastered all over the morning news.

She could just see the headlines: "Corpse Couple Finds Love!"

The thought made her grimace.

She knew he was becoming beyond annoyed at the fuss, if her text alerts were any indication.

_Do you have anything of interest in the morgue? SH_

_I need body parts for an experiment. Anything will do SH_

_Why do these morons insist on glamorizing the methods used for the suicide? Did they pay NO attention to the careful calculations of the placement of that rubbish truck? How are showy dramatics more interesting than basic physics? SH_

After a week of barely seeing him as he whisked through Bart's in mad attempts to escape (sadly, his presence at the hospital only stirred a flurry of photographers looking to get a picture at the scene), she was woken one night by the familiar dip of her mattress. He pulled her against him and buried his face in her freshly washed hair, inhaling deeply. She inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that he had chosen to come to her. She loved him enough to let him move on if that's what he wanted, knowing that it would potentially break her heart permanently. That was what it was to love Sherlock Holmes – giving every bit of herself, her strength to let him go if she needed to, in order to see him survive.

But he came back.

"Were you followed?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"Who gives a damn."

"You do."

"I've missed you, Molly," he murmured, lips brushing her temple. "Don't ruin that by reading my thoughts."

She let out a small breath as she smiled, rocking her hips into him to take her teasing revenge.

* * *

John and Mary's wedding was beautiful. She tried valiantly not to stare at Sherlock, dressed to the nines, thinking how awful she looked up on the altar with the other bridesmaids in her mustard yellow dress. People immediately swamped him as the party moved to a garden reception behind a stone meeting hall, asking probing questions about what they had read in the papers. She could tell by the look on his face that he was fighting the urge to bolt and hole up at Baker Street. She shot a sympathetic look in his direction and he gave her a tight smile before turning away. Biting her lip, she chose to make her way to the outdoor bar.

She promptly managed to spill some of her wine on the chiffon fabric and swore at her clumsiness, wiping hopelessly at it with a wet napkin.

It was apparently enough to draw the attention of a slightly stocky man named Sam who decided that she needed someone to talk to. It was tedious small talk, but as she hardly knew anyone else it was tolerable.

"She's clearly not interested, why are you still trying?"

His voice came from right behind her. She glanced around to see he had sidled up to the bar, leaning casually on the counter with a tumbler of something strong in his hand. His other hand came to rest possessively on the small of her back, toying with the chiffon of her dress. The sensation of his fingers sent a jolt of heat through her spine. She gave Sam a tight smile and he got the message, shooting Sherlock an annoyed look as he walked off. She turned to face her consulting detective, causing his hand to drop away from her waist.

"Chasing off my potential dates, again," she teased, not wanting to let him off the hook so soon. After all, he had yet to acknowledge their relationship, whatever it was, to anyone but her cat. "He was nice."

"He was a moron," Sherlock took a drink from his glass. "Vapid expression, not particularly loquacious, probably hasn't read a book in about four years, not to mention the sweating and flushed complexion indicate sedentary lifestyle and high risk for cardiac issues." He leaned in to her body and lowered his head so that his mouth just grazed her ear. "He wouldn't last two nights in your bedroom." Now it was her turn to flush. He smiled when he saw his desired reaction and leaned back again. "He was beneath you, Molly. They all are."

Realization suddenly struck her. She looked up at him with a knowing smile, eliciting a furrowed brow and his full attention.

"That's why you always did what you did," she marveled. "Drove off every man I brought around. Even that Christmas… you made fun because you were  _jealous_. You couldn't stand the thought of some other chap getting that pristine present. Jealous of yourself, in the end, silly man."

Though he didn't say a word, she could tell by the set of his mouth and his eyes darting to look everywhere but at her that she was right. Her smile softened from teasing to affection. They stood in silence for several moments, watching the party unfold before them.

"You appear to have spilled something on your dress."

Her cheeks warmed, feeling ten years old, suddenly.

"I know…"

"It's a horrendous color on you, anyway. Mary did you no favors, I would have ruined it, too."

"I do believe the official name is 'saffron,'" she told him, smiling as she looked down at the hideous dress. He took another sip before abandoning the glass on the bar.

"Can't wait to get you out of it," he said lowly.

Her cheeks flushed in earnest now. She wondered if there would ever come a day when he didn't manage to elicit that reaction from her.

"Have you had a dance yet, Molly?" he asked casually.

She shook her head and took his offered arm with a smile. Not surprisingly, he led her away from the dance floor and through a side door in the garden wall that opened onto a small, unoccupied pass-through from the main building. Quite alone, he wrapped an arm around her waist and took up her hand with the other. She rested her hand along the back of his shoulder, easier to reach in her high heels, and enjoyed the way he swayed with her to the easy, acoustic music. They shared a few lovely minutes before she heard the sound of raucous voices approaching. Sherlock leaned down to whisper against her ear.

"Should have picked a better spot. I owe you a dance."

He slid his hands away and stepped back just as Greg and John wandered through the doorway with drinks in hand.

"Told you they came through here," John exclaimed, handing a pint over to Sherlock.

"You can't let this poor girl have one day off without bothering her about work, can you, mate?" Greg ribbed him, earning an eye roll and a forced smile from Sherlock.

"It's fine, really, I don't mind," Molly said with a nervous laugh, hand running along her arm, more to undo the goosebumps from Sherlock's touch than anything else.

"No work today, today is only for celebrating," Greg proclaimed, handing a glass of white wine to Molly. "So many good things to celebrate!"

"What are you rambling about?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Good news in," he told them. "Just got word that the newspapers are retracting every word Kitty Riley ever printed about our dear Sherlock. She's been disgraced."

"Here, here," John declared, lifting his glass in the air.

"Glad to hear it," Molly grinned. "She was a right bi- erm, witch."

She took an innocent sip of her wine, ignoring the intrigued look Sherlock was currently giving her.

"Cheers all around," Greg lifted his glass at Sherlock before turning to Molly. "Can I rescue you from this bothersome but extraordinary man and offer you a dance."

"Not wasting any time after signing those divorce papers, are we?" Sherlock said coolly.

Molly shot him an incredulous look as she took Greg's offered arm. There was no harm in testing his ego every once in a while, she decided.

Sherlock watched her go with a critical eye, needing a moment to process the sight of her on another man's arm.

His hopes for solace were dashed as John stayed with him, looking slightly drunk and stupidly happy from marital bliss. Sherlock barely contained his patronizing look. Unbothered, his friend smiled at him and pulled two cigars from his coat pocket, handing one to Sherlock.

"Lestrade," John explained the origin of the cigars. "I figured since it's a special occasion and all."

"Yes, we can celebrate your eternal bondage to domesticity," Sherlock smiled at him as he ignited a lighter.

"Ah, Sherlock," John sighed, taking a puff from his cigar. "One day I hope you get to realize there is slightly more to life than murder."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Ohhh, I don't know," John smirked and looked at him. "You tell me – how much fun have you been having with Molly?"

Sherlock choked a little on the inhale of his cigar. John looked forward with a smug expression.

"Thought so," he grinned.

* * *

Molly allowed him to approach the situation in his own way. It didn't take long to decipher Sherlock's method for keeping her around.

Inexplicable nerves hit her the first time he summoned her to Baker Street, asking for her opinion on an experiment he was conducting. He kept her around for a sufficiently long amount of time and then proclaimed it was far too late for her to be traveling home safely. Perhaps it was that he was shifting their relationship from the cocoon of familiarity in her house, perhaps it was because the presence of all things  _him_  was just overwhelming in the space, but Molly was nearly trembling in his arms when he lowered her to his bed, kissing her tenderly in every place that set her skin on fire.

He asked for her help on experiments frequently. If she had to stay afterwards and if they wound up making love for the better part of the night, well, so much the better. And if she needed to keep a toothbrush and a few extras sets of clothes at Baker Street, just in case, who was he to argue?

He was adamant about keeping some of his equipment at her home when she suggested she help him move it back to Baker Street.

"If I'm here and I need it, what good is it that it's all been moved across town?"

The first case to pique his interest came just after John's return from his honeymoon. The three of them fell easily back into their roles, the only difference being that John returned to his home with Mary at the end of the day and Sherlock usually looked to Molly with a silent request to not let him spend the night alone.

Some things didn't change. He still drifted off while solving problems, still snapped at anyone who wasn't up to his standards, and still requested coffee when Molly appeared to be too idle in the lab.

Since he had eliminated her from the group of people he became overly snarky with, she granted him the requests, though the first time had set her laughing when she left the room.

Sherlock had taken one sip of the coffee and recoiled in disgust. He held the offending cup out to Molly.

"What have you done to the coffee?" he demanded.

Molly cast a helpless glance at John, fingers pulling at the sleeve of her lab coat.

"I… I dunno," she gave a small laugh, trying to figure out what he could possibly be complaining about. "It's just the coffee from the break room, as always."

"Did you put petrol in it? Extract of embalming fluids?" he nagged, taking a final whiff before putting the cup on timeout a good arm's length away from him. "It tastes  _nothing_  like your coffee."

"Oh," Molly exclaimed, realization dawning on her. "Oh, I always put a bit of cinnamon and nutmeg in my grounds before I percolate at home. No one here seems to like it much." She smiled after the simple explanation and grabbed the mug. "I'll make you a new cup."

Sherlock stared after her with a mildly stunned look as she left the room and could see John fighting back a smile out of the corner of his eye. He turned a narrowed look on him.

"What?" he barked.

"Oh, nothing," John sniggered. He let a moment pass before he dug in. "You've grown accustomed to her face."

"Shut up."

"She almost makes the day begin!"

"Really, do shut the fuck up, John."

She didn't even try to hide her laugh at his embarrassment from the other side of the door.

* * *

Sherlock was pleasantly surprised at the balance he had found in returning to his old life and incorporating Molly into the equation. Considering John had left him to live with his wife, Molly's presence in 221B had been quite welcome… for more than one reason. Contrary to what he had believed, it wasn't an entirely insufferable arrangement.

Watching her get ready in the morning had been an interesting study. He'd always suspected her haphazard style was the result of rushing, but he was intrigued to find out that her mornings were actually quite calm and thought out.

 _At least she's color coordinated today_ , he thought as he watched her with one eye from his sprawled position on the bed, head face down in a pillow.

Molly pulled her hair to tighten her ponytail and turned to climb onto the bed to plant a kiss on his head.

"Come by Bart's, I'll have those samples of aquatic fungi ready for you," she promised him as she stood up.

"Is it strange that hearing you talk about mycology does something to me?" he murmured.

Molly snorted, pulling on her jacket.

"A bit," she said, trying to keep a straight face. "Don't go too soon, I'm trying to meet with John this morning."

Sherlock grunted his agreement.

His arrival at Bart's found no Molly and no samples. Brow drawn in disappointment, he busied himself with other activities in the lab until John showed up with a potential case file.

"Did Molly find you?"

"What?" John looked up from the file. "Um, no, she didn't."

"Mmm," Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Should have by now… Probably got dragged into another hallway conversation with Stamford,  _agonizing_  storyteller that he is."

"She'll turn up soon."

"She had better, there's a body I need her clearance to look at," he muttered. "Not to mention that I need to use the electrophotometer and she's supposed to 'supervise' me after the incident with the fingers. Tell me, John, how else would you have tested the turbidity of water containing decomposing flesh?"

"Forcing everything back to normal, then," John said, slightly disappointed in his friend's attitude. "Yelling at Anderson, embarrassing Lestrade, and ordering Molly around like Cinderella."

Sherlock's eyes shot up, feeling like he had been hit with a brick.

"Say that again."

"You're back to normal, Sherlock - "

"That  _last part, John_! Say that last part again!"

"You're ordering Molly around like Cinderella," John furrowed his brow as he repeated himself slowly. "She's your very own little kitchen maid again, which, by the way, makes you a bit of a tosser, considering."

Sherlock barely heard John, his heart beginning to pound in his chest as wave after wave of information hit him, the long abandoned letter and disputed certainty that Moran was not the last of the network hurtling through his brain. IOU…  _U!_  The picture of the Grimm's index flashed through his mind and the pieces crashed into place.

"It wasn't a throwaway warning. IOU, John, it was there all along and I  _missed it_!  _Damnit_!" he slammed his hand on the table. He thought out loud, launching into a stream of consciousness, standing from his stool and beginning to pace. "Obvious. How could I have been so  _stupid_! IOU, letters nine, fifteen, and twenty-one of the bloody English alphabet! Also stories nine, fifteen, and twenty-one of the book.  _The Twelve Brothers, Hansel and Gretel,_ and  _Cinderella_. I've done Hansel and Gretel. Saved the children from the witch and caught the kidnappers. Twelve Brothers – a princess is forced into exile and nearly burned at the stake all in order to save the lives of her brothers, her family, all for jealously. I've done that, Moriarty threatened to burn me but I returned from exile and saved my family. The letter  _U_ , number twenty-one… Cinderella… she's Cinderella. She's the last story and he knew it. I thought he had missed her…"

John began to grow concerned at the increasing look of distress on his friend's face. His stomach tightened at what he was fairly sure Sherlock was implying.

"Sherlock…"

"Only it wasn't just him," he continued. "What do all of those stories have in common, John?"

"I – I couldn't say for sure," John said.

"The  _witch_. The wicked mother-in-law. The jealous stepmother," Sherlock's eyes had grown dark and he practically growled as he came to his conclusion. "Moriarty was right, every fairy tale has to have a good old fashion villain. And we know who that villain is in almost every story the Grimms ever wrote."

"Sherlock,  _who_? Who are you talking about?"

"You heard Molly say it herself, John… 'Kitty Riley is a witch.'"


	11. Chapter 11

John struggled to keep up with Sherlock as they rushed to Molly's, out of practice with running around with the man. A quick search at Bart's had revealed that no one had seen Molly come in at any point in the morning. They were both out of breath by the time they reached her door. John leaned over to place his hands on his knees, not bothering to comment on Sherlock having the key to her place.

"Tell me again," he gasped. "Why no taxi?"

"More direct route on foot," Sherlock said as he unlocked the door. "Taxi would have taken five more minutes."

Sherlock's heart beat like a drum in his chest as he pushed at the door, unable to move his feet. His already labored breathing only got worse when he looked into the small foyer, stomach clenching uncontrollably.

"No…"

Sitting on the ground, taunting him with every nightmare he thought he'd put behind him, was a single shoe – one of the pair of high heels she'd worn to the wedding.

* * *

The stone silence Sherlock was consumed in worried John immensely as Lestrade and Donovan's team tore through Molly's home, inspecting every corner for evidence. Comments on the presence of items that hinted at Sherlock's habitation in the building were checked, though his eyes narrowed ever so slightly when an item was inspected too carefully. John had only ever seen his friend like this on a few occasions – nothing good ever came of it. He watched Sherlock, standing in front of the fireplace with arms folded over his chest, eying the move of every person in the room. Other than distractedly muttering something about there being no helpful clues in the house and Lestrade's team wasting their time, he'd said nothing. He had already thoroughly torn through the house on his own before the police showed up and John was inclined to believe him.

Sherlock's icy stare froze straight ahead as his phone rang in his pocket. He reached for it and looked down at the screen.

"Everyone shut up, shut  _up_!" he shouted.

The phone rang once more in the silence before he answered it.

"Sherlooock…"

The voice made his blood boil.

"Guess who I've got with me?" Kitty Riley droned. "Your biggest fan."

"You think I won't find you?" he threatened lowly.

"Oh I'm counting on it. I'm counting on all your brains and your cleverness to lead you right to your damsel in distress. I've even told her she's allowed one clue for the great Sherlock Holmes. Just one small one."

He heard the phone being shuffled and relief hit him as he heard her voice.

"Sherlock…"

"Molly," he breathed. "Tell me, tell me where you are."

"The password," she said, her voice heavy. "Sherlock, it's the password."

"That's all for now!" Riley's voice trilled in his ear and he wanted to rip her tongue out. "Hurry up, darling Sherlock. You have until the stroke of twelve… but you already knew that."

The dial tone left him wanting to vomit. He lost control and hurled the phone against the wall, not caring a bit at the dent he left in the plaster. The room had gone deadly silent and Lestrade gaped at him. Sherlock shut his eyes against the intrusive faces, fingers going to his temples as he processed the conversation. He felt his breath growing shallow, his hands beginning to shake. Too much noise, too many distractions. He needed to  _think_!

"Everybody out!"

"Sherlock," Lestrade started.

Sherlock rounded on him, eyes wild.

"Everbody out, NOW!" he roared. "And while you're at it, go back to the Yard, you're all useless here anyway!"

Donovan glared at him and lost no time in instructing her team to do exactly as he said. Lestrade lingered as the SOCOs made their retreat, looking at Sherlock with concern.

"Whenever you're done with the distressed looks," he shot as he caught the look exchanged between Lestrade and John. "It's not as though her life depends on this."

Lestrade let out a frustrated sigh and allowed John to usher him out. By the time John returned to the room, Sherlock was standing in front of the window, eyes closed and fingers placed over his lips.

Molly's room was large now. He had shelved and catalogued thousands of details about her, almost every one woven tightly with an emotion she had stirred from him. It took effort to push those emotions down and focus on what he needed. The problem was, for a long time, she had passed through his life as a mere shadow in his days. He had deleted much of what was exchanged between them early on in their working relationship. He crushed the feeling of guilt that accompanied the realization and worked through the possible meanings for the date.

The third of October, the year two thousand and nine.

Special birthday. No.

Father's death. No.

Hired at Bart's. No.

Anniversary of a relationship. No.

Wait.

Then it hit him.

"The day we met… John! It was the day we met!"

"So, something to do with the hospital, then?" John offered, moving quickly from the kitchen to join Sherlock.

"No. The first time we met wasn't actually at the hospital. It was at some ridiculous gala the hospital was throwing during the middle of one of my investigations. My usual pathologist wasn't willing to leave simply to show me a body I had already looked at. They introduced me to Molly. The case she helped me on… the case, the case, it was… an apparent suicide. But it wasn't, because his son had killed him for…" He trailed off as it all pieced together.

"Killed him for what, Sherlock?" John pushed, bristling with worry.

"His antique clock collection totaling over a hundred thousand pounds," he finished, his mind already moving on. Without waiting, he strode towards the door and down the steps, John running to keep up.

"Go tell Lestrade," Sherlock told him. "Tell him to send everyone he can spare."

"Where?" John demanded.

"Don't you see, John? Cinderella, midnight, clocks – she's got her in the Clock Tower!"

* * *

Molly stared with strained eyes, nerves beyond exhausted, unable to remove her gaze from the nose of the pistol being tapped against her knee. Kitty Riley knelt in front of her, a crazed half grin on her face. Her arms were numb from the rope restraining her to the metal chair and her head throbbed from where she had been rendered unconscious.

"He's coming for you, you know," Riley smiled.

Molly's lip curled slightly in disgust.

"He's going to destroy you," she said weakly.

"He already did," Riley replied, her face contorting into anger. "He took Seb… he took my Richard. He ruined it all. And I'm going to make sure I get to repay every last favor, starting with you. He's going to watch as you take your last breath."

The tremble in Molly's body would not stop, no matter how much she willed it to. She was terrified. Downright, ready to wet herself, genuflecting to a higher power she didn't really believe in for a miracle terrified. And she'd just ensured that Sherlock would be walking into the danger as well. He would have found her anyway, she knew that. With Riley pointing a gun to her temple and forcing her to offer a clue, with his voice begging her on the other end of the phone, the outcome had been solidified beyond her control.

Riley suddenly stood up and turned away, walking across the small space that contained the groaning, clanking gears of one of the greatest symbols of Britain. She stood in front of the massive face of the clock, her form silhouetted by the light filtering through. Molly took advantage of another moment of being unobserved, rubbing the robe against the small jut of metal she had found in the back of the chair. She winced as her skin caught on the sharp edge in her efforts.

"He's a quick one," Riley said as she observed the shift of the clock hands.

It took Molly a moment to decipher what her words meant. Her eyes closed in dread as she heard the door from the stairs creak open.

Molly watched him enter the room, his presence commanding attention even in this tense situation.

"Mr. Holmes," Kitty crooned appreciatively. "You must know your Molly so well, solving her little puzzle so quickly. Come to rescue your one true love, then?"

"My what?" he asked, looking offended by the words. In his quick glance to her, she saw him assess her state of being. She knew he obviously saw the gash on her head, the blood having dried along the side of her face. Perhaps he saw the panic and fear in her eyes. She certainly saw the flash of fury in his before he pulled a mask of control over his face.

"Richard was right about you," Riley said, her lip curling. "You do have a heart… John Watson may have your undying loyalty, but your heart is buried deeply in her." With the statement, she lifted her pistol and trained it straight at Molly, her gaze cruelly turned on her petrified face. "He saw it in the pathetic way you strung her along, the way you went running to her each and every time you needed a soul to confide in. And what a transformation over the last year, I must say. Did it without a fairy godmother, even."

By the time Riley turned to look back at Sherlock, he had his own pistol trained on her. She laughed.

"Well. What an impasse," she said. "If you shoot me, who's to say it won't cause my finger to just…slip. And if I shoot her… I won't get to see any of the agony it causes you."

"Tragic," Sherlock said evenly.

"Tell me, Sherlock…what will it be like to see the life drain away from the only person who's ever really loved you? The only person you've ever allowed yourself to love in return?"

He glanced down at Molly, eyes cold. Molly felt a lump rise into her throat and she began to question the idea that this mask of detachment could all be an act.

"It was an interesting experiment," he told Riley with disinterest. "Delving into the world of human sentiment – sex, lust, loyalty. If you think  _love_  is what brought me here, you are sadly mistaken."

"Am I?"

"Indeed. You've fallen for the oldest trick in the book," he sneered at her, stepping closer. "The idea that  _love_  is the most important thing in all the world. How sad for you. You could have escaped the inevitable and run off to South America or some other ridiculous place to start your syndicate over. But you just had to get your revenge. You let your mind fall prey to the chemicals of  _love_ , your idiotic love for Richard Brook."

"Do you expect me to stand here and believe that you don't care one bit - "

"Dull!" he roared, stepping so near to Kitty that his gun was nearly touching her. "All of it, dull! I care about nice, tidy endings to my deductions, that is all, and now that you've provided me that courtesy we can end this insufferably boring question and answer game."

Molly flinched as Kitty reeled her arm back and let the back of her hand fly across Sherlock's face. His head snapped to the side, but in Riley's distraction he threw his arm up to the one holding the gun and wrenched it around her back. Riley cried out and the force from Sherlock's grip caused her to drop the weapon, which he kicked into the corner of the room. Molly watched with horror as Riley grabbed at Sherlock's wrist with both hands, her hidden strength now obvious as she launched them backwards into the wall of the small room with a loud thud. Sherlock grappled for air, his wind knocked from his body from the impact of the wall and Riley's shoulder shoved into his chest. She flung his hand into the concrete wall with a sickening crack, effectively disarming him.

Moving quickly, Sherlock used his weight to fling them both forward again, landing in a heap on the ground. Before he could get his feet under him, Riley grasped one of the loose ropes littering the room, leftover from whatever reconstruction project had been undertaken recently.

"Sherlock!" Molly screamed, her warning too late as she watched Riley coil the rope around his neck, pulling it tight against the back of his head.

He pried at the rope, body dragged into an arched standing position as Riley yanked him roughly to her, her feet spread wide to support the weight and a knee dug into his back to throw him from his balance and any chance to gain the upper hand.

"Stop, please stop!" Molly shrieked at Riley's back, not able to see Sherlock's face hidden behind her body.

"Not quite what I had planned, but this will do," she grunted, tugging hard at the rope. "She gets to watch you die instead before I kill her."

Molly forced her eyes to remain on them, blinking through the blur of tears and wincing through one last nick to her hand from the metal before she finally felt the rope break and fall away from her wrists. Only one thought roared through her mind as she lunged towards her satchel sitting just a few steps away, digging desperately through to the bottom. She felt her hand land on the steel and yanked the semi-automatic free. It was supposed to go back to John that very morning… Her body felt light as she raised the gun with hands so steady they surprised her, fixing her focus on Kitty Riley. She felt as though she were seeing her actions from above, her body being controlled by some other entity. Riley's back was to her, her hands pulling horrifically at the rope around his neck. Her body was flush with his and Molly had no clear shot. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Sherlock turned his head enough looked over Kitty's shoulder and right into Molly's eyes. His blinking grew rapid as he grasped at the rope, his mouth working wordlessly.

Her heart shattered as she watched him mouth her name before his eyes slid shut, the muscles in her arms shaking with the adrenaline to shoot but never able to do so without hitting him as well. Hot tears stung her eyes as she watched Riley let go and he dropped to the ground, giving Molly the opportunity she needed.

She would recall later that it took very little effort to squeeze the trigger. Her aim was not wonderful and her target was not still. She was told that she had caused massive internal injuries and that the life support had kept Riley alive only long enough to get information out of her before she finally died from her injuries.

In that moment, all she had seen was Sherlock rising from the floor like a dark angel, moving in slow motion towards her. He could have won an award for the death scene he had performed, getting Riley to drop him while he was still lucid. He took the gun from Molly's trembling hand and tossed it away, immediately wrapping her in his arms. She was vaguely aware of most of the Yard bursting into the tower as she wept into his chest, hands clinging to the front of his coat.

He'd kept an arm wrapped possessively around her the entire walk down the long, winding staircase to the ground, nearly taking the head off of a new officer who tried too quickly to coax a statement from her. When she finally insisted she was ready, he'd settled for no one other than Lestrade, hand firmly clenched around hers the entire time. It was only when the paramedics were taking care of both of them, cleaning her head wound and cuts and setting his hand in bandages, that she realized she had been keeping a death grip on the hand that had most likely suffered a few fractured bones. He never said a word.

She was vaguely aware of John and Mary hovering on the edges of the mess of officers and medics, keeping a watchful distance. She thought she sent them a reassuring smile, but she honestly wasn't sure.

They had a police escort back to her house.

When the door was shut on the horrors of the day and she was left looking at his hesitant form idling in her kitchen, coat folded neatly over the back of a chair, she felt like she had stones in her stomach.

"Don't," she warned.

He looked at her with confused, wounded eyes.

"Don't you dare stand there and start putting it into your mind that you are responsible for any of this."

"How else would I put it?" he asked her, his voice sounding worn, defensive.

"You are not allowed to use this as an excuse to push me away," she told him fiercely as she moved towards him, grasping for control of the emotions unraveling in her. "Not after everything we've been through. You're just not allowed to, you're not."

"Do you not understand what your relationship to me caused? What I forced on you, what I caused you to do!" he practically shouted at her. He felt the unwelcome tears well up in his eyes, wishing that he could shut them off as easily as he could start them when he was faking. "This is why I stay  _alone_! Why I remain as people have always seen me – a lonely sociopath. A  _freak_."

She wanted to shake him for saying such things about himself. More so, she wanted to smack anyone who had ever told him that's what he was. The anger and protectiveness she felt rising up in her was unlike anything she'd ever felt. Before he had a chance to back away, she closed the distance between them and slid her hands on either side of his face, holding on fervently as she pulled his forehead down to hers.

"You are  _not_  a freak, Sherlock," she trembled. "You are an incredible man, the most incredible man I've ever met in my life. D'you even know how much… you mean  _so_  much… I love y - "

"Molly, please, please don't say it," he begged her, his hands grasping at her waist and holding her tight. "If you say that, I might not be able to protect you."

"Protect me from  _what_?"

"From me."

"Oh God, Sherlock, stop with that already!" she cried, letting her hands slide away from his face and stepping out of his arms. Her resolve was almost compromised by the look of shock and hurt in his eyes, but she kept going, knowing it needed to be said. "There is nothing wrong with caring about another person! It wasn't your fault that any of this happened to me, or to anyone. The only people at fault are the people who committed the crimes – Moriarty, Kitty Riley. They brought on their own end. I would never wish for anything to be different. Not a single thing, do you hear me?… not if it meant giving you up."

"How, how can you say that?" he asked, his voice thickening with emotion. "If it weren't for me - "

"If it weren't for you I'd probably be sitting at home watching bad telly with some fat bore of a boyfriend who was slowly killing my soul," she said angrily, stepping towards him again. "And John would probably be…"

She saw him wince and left it unsaid. Her hand went to his face again, her thumb wiping away the tear that had finally slid down his cheek.

"You saved us all," she told him quietly.

She watched the emotions slide over his face, his eyes tired, mouth pulled tight in his effort not to show more than he meant to. It made her ache. Everything about him had been making her ache for years; aching for his attention, his respect, his touch, his life, his love.

Looking into his eyes, she saw his own ache for the first time.

They had both been so horribly robbed in this life. Pulled to the limits of human elasticity. If it had snapped them, she only wanted to patch the pieces, to pick up every shard of their lives and rebuild. Because she would always do that for Sherlock – she would spend the rest of her life holding together the pieces that always fell.

She leaned up and placed a hesitant kiss on his mouth, watching his reaction. She kissed him again. And again, until his eyes slid shut and he anchored his hand in her hair, consuming her mouth with his. He walked her back against the granite counter and she grasped for the edges, using the leverage of his body to lift herself onto the hard surface. She felt his hands pulling at the zipper of her trousers. She felt the hot, wet tears slide down his face and mingle with their kiss, hers soon joining them.

Lifting her hips, she let him pull at her trousers until they pooled in a heap on the ground.

She wanted it to stop and never stop, because she knew…

She knew if she let him have this one last moment with her…

Her hands pushed his out of the way to undo his trousers, immediately leading him into her, muscles quivering in fear and pleasure and happiness and worry. His lips never left hers as he thrust into her, hands cemented to her body. Her orgasm wracked her body, flooding her with an almost painful counterpoint to her terror and sorrow. Burying his face in the curve of her neck, he groaned and sobbed as he came apart inside her.

Breathing still raged, he slid away from her, fumbling at his trousers.

"I'm so sorry, Molly," he choked out, agonized. "I can't… I just... it's not fair to you."

"Sherlock…"

The coat was grabbed and he was gone in the blink of an eye.

Molly drew a shaking hand over face as her head tilted back against the cabinets, wiping away the drying tears.


	12. Chapter 12

Molly shut her medicine cabinet and stared hard at the reflection in the mirror. She had finally stopped needing to apply extra concealer to hide the shadows under her eyes, her nights having been somewhat easier to sleep through. Not a strand of hair was out of place. If it weren't for the general mopiness about her eyes that she hadn't yet shed, she presented a fairly pleasant picture. She wrinkled her nose.

 _Fifteen days_.

"Stop it," she scolded herself. "You knew it was probably going to go to shit all along anyway."

She arrived at her office to find a list of postmortems waiting for her for the day and a note that her input was needed on test results from the previous day's work. Shrugging into her lab coat, she gathered the paperwork she needed and made her way down the hall. When she walked the distance from her office to the lab, she knew, because she  _always_  knew, that he was there. There had been a careful avoidance for two weeks and there was no doubt in her mind that her schedule had been reviewed and accounted for. If he was here, it meant he was either on a case that could not idle until she was gone, or… She wouldn't put it past him to waltz in with indifference broadcast from every pore on his body.

She steeled herself outside of the lab.

 _I just need to grab the Henderson charts_ , she told herself.  _Just grab them and leave_. _Grab them and leave!_

She swung the door open and bolted for the file waiting for her in the chart queue on the wall. Heart pounding, she made a quick about face and headed for the door.

"Hi, Molly," John greeted her, somewhat cheerful. She risked a glance up at him, Sherlock's form burning the edges of her vision.

"'Lo, John," she replied quickly, making a mad dash for the door. Once outside, she plastered herself to the wall and took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves and her anger.

Feeling like the most pathetic version of herself, she felt her skin begin to itch with irritation as she found herself hiding out in the morgue, completing a postmortem (natural causes) in record time. Lack of interruption or a need to use any tools besides her trained eye allowed for quick work. Her second postmortem called for a toxicology screen at the request of the family. At the very first hint of a thought that she would not be able to avoid the lab anymore, her irritation began to grow. She glared at her sample vials as she filled them. As she put Mrs. Winston back together, her mind came to one completely peeved conclusion: it was  _her_  lab and he had no business driving her out of it with his apathetic behavior.

This called for bold Molly, the Molly she'd finally been able to let out around him for more than just a split second of anger at his insistence her date was gay or he embarrassed her in front of all her friends. She rather liked that bold Molly had finally gotten comfortable around Sherlock.

Mind made up, she marched right into the lab, rack of vials in one hand and cup in the other. Settling the vials on the counter, she sat firmly on the stool directly next to Sherlock. She saw his eyes drop from the microscope and land on the steaming mug of black coffee sitting between them. A beat passed before he spoke.

"You didn't have to bring me coffee," he muttered

"I didn't," she said as she lifted the cup to her lips.

The clearing of a throat nearly made her jump and she looked up to see John in the corner of the room, chart held in his hands mid-read. She swallowed guiltily as she realized her little display had been witnessed. John looked between the two of them, eyes narrowing slightly before he returned to the charts.

They worked in silence for nearly an hour before a certain petri dish caused Sherlock to jump up from his stool, ripping his coat from the coat rack as he headed towards the door. Molly was sure he looked at her for just a moment too long as he did so.

"Sherlock?" John asked after him.

"Antibiotics in the fish," he said primly as he pulled on his coat. "The owner of the 'organic' seafood restaurant has been lying."

John hurried to put his own workstation back in order before grabbing his coat to follow Sherlock out the door, casting a sympathetic look at Molly.

"He's just… I don't know exactly," John stammered. "You know he's not particularly forthcoming with anything personal, but I'll - "

"John!" His booming voice carried down the corridor.

John rolled his eyes and put a comforting hand on Molly's.

"I'll talk to him," he promised.

* * *

With dinner planned at Mary's parents' for the evening, John was unable to keep his promise until the next day. He'd not frequented Baker Street as much in recent days, opting to join Sherlock at Bart's, NSY, or on the scene of the crime. One ill-timed visit had revealed a bit too much audio evidence of his previous suspicions of Sherlock and Molly's relationship. He'd waited for invitations after that incident.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. And if Sherlock's attitude recently was any indication, this was a desperate time.

He hit the buzzer for Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh thank God you're here," Mrs. Hudson said conspiratorially as she hurried John inside. "He's been impossible."

Just then a loud crash emanated from the flat above, the sound of something shattering following soon after.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

"Not your housekeeper!" she hollered up the stairwell, surprising John with her annoyance. "You break it, you clean it up!"

"How long has he been like this?"

"Almost two weeks. Needs a good shag if you ask me," Mrs. Hudson said critically as she looked at the ceiling, causing John's eyebrows to shoot to his hairline. "He's been a terror since that lovely Hooper girl stopped coming around. But I'm not going to be the one to tell him that."

John ascended the stairs in trepidation, walking in on as strange a scene as he'd ever encountered in 221B and that was saying something. Medieval weaponry was scattered throughout the room and it looked as though a table lamp had taken the worst of it from a small mace. Sherlock was standing in front of the fireplace, still in pyjamas and his dressing gown, with a long bow in his hand, arrow poised.

"Where, really,  _where_  did you get all of this?"

"Mycroft left his door unlocked," Sherlock said as he let the arrow go. It landed with a satisfying  _thwack_  in the chest of a dummy suspended over the couch. John took in the drawn in caricature of a face and the black umbrella tied to one of the hands.

"Oh this is healthy," he grumbled. "What exactly is this experiment?"

"Weapons markings," Sherlock told him as he nocked another arrow. "The chest is made of clay. I'll make castings later."

 _Thwack_.

"When would anyone in this day and age ever use… oh piss it, what happened with Molly?"

"What makes you think anything  _happened_ , John?" Sherlock asked with derision, though his hand fumbled for another arrow from the set propped on his chair.

"Oh, I don't know, the fact that you can't get through five minutes without biting someone's head off, which is extreme even for you,  _except_  for the three hours we were at Bart's yesterday and you clammed up like… a clam," John finished lamely.

"What oratorical aptitude, John, how  _does_  your blog get the attention it does?"

"Don't change the subject," John insisted, stepping a bit closer to his friend. "You were actually in a fairly normal relationship with a woman, probably the best woman you could ever hope for in your life, and  _something_ happened. What did you do?"

"I turned it off," Sherlock said coolly, pulling the arrow back.

"You… turned it off."

"Like a spigot."

 _Thwack_.

"You're a moron."

Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh and dropped the bow unceremoniously on the ground.

"It was necessity, John," he explained impatiently. "The best choice for her safety was to cut all ties, excepting any professional situation that might arise."

"Bullshit. Moriarty came after me, that didn't stop you from continuing our friendship… albeit after a year of faking your death, but that's not really the point here - " John suddenly stopped as he considered his friend. "Unless Molly's different."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under his knowing gaze.

"She is, isn't she?" John continued. "You really care for her, don't you?"

The silence spoke more than anything Sherlock could have said.

"Fix it, Sherlock," John advised him pointedly. "Don't fuck this one up."

* * *

"He shagged you and then left?" Mary asked with an incredulous look.

Molly gave her a tight smile and nodded her head.

"Fuck me," Mary said, not missing a beat as she took the cups of tea from the table, deposited them on Molly's kitchen counter, and whisked a bottle of vodka from her freezer, plunking two shot glasses down to replace the cups. She filled them both and raised her glass to Molly.

"Here's hoping John cleans his clock again," she said.

"If he doesn't, I just might," Molly replied as she lifted her glass to clink against Mary's, letting the liquor sear down her throat in harsh comfort.

* * *

A day passed and Molly read her way through a day off, intending to catch up on recent publications in the medical field. Mary had been nothing but supportive as Molly purged every detail of a relationship she had felt obligated to keep tucked close to her heart. Her friend swore secrecy, albeit amongst a few choice words for Sherlock.

As the day wore on, Molly's mind grew tired of abstracts and Latin words. She set her laptop on the coffee table and made her way to the office for the first time in nearly a month. She had never bothered to set the bench correctly and she sat awkwardly on the end, fingers feeling over the keys. She picked out some silly melody that didn't make any sense until she settled on Bach's Suite in G minor. Originally meant for the cello, but it had always been a favorite and she had altered it accordingly.

The press of his chest against her back barely even fazed her (unless the leap of her heart and subsequent shiver through her skin could be considered). She'd felt his presence long before he settled on the bench behind her.

"Forgive me," he murmured against her ear. Her hands stilled on the keys. "I was… beyond idiotic. I've been reliably informed by John that being an idiot is a common behavior when people are in love."

Her breath caught in her throat. His mouth lowered to brush his lips against the curve of her neck.

"I am in love with you, Molly… please, forgive me."

Molly turned on the bench, sliding one leg deftly over the smooth surface to straddle it. With narrowed eyes, she poked a finger into his chest, causing him to frown.

"Now let me get a few things straight with you," she started. "One, we are beyond the point in our relationship where you get to use a bit of flowery language after you've been a prat and suddenly get me to bend to your every will. Two, you have been a  _massive_  idiot and it would serve you right if I let you suffer a long while for it." She paused and took a shaky breath. "And three, you are  _my_  idiot, and for reasons that  _no one_ , including myself, sometimes, can understand, I love you more than anyone. Always have. But if you ever, ever run off like that again and shut me out, I will make sure you never place another  _toe_  inside Bart's as long as you live."

Sherlock blinked at her, head raised in full attention.

"I'd be more worried about never placing a toe, or any other part of my anatomy, in your home again," he said.

"Flowery language," she said with an edge of a warning.

"I mean it, Molly," he replied, voice lowered in seriousness. His gaze dropped down, his hand reaching out to brush absently against her arm. "You… became something to me that I have no experience with. An unknown, a variant. Those are puzzling things. The thought of losing you, or you leaving…  _frightened_  me. I reacted badly to an emotion I have very little experience with."

"Love? Or fear?"

"Both."

She considered him for a moment before her eyes softened. Brushing a stray curl away from his forehead, she leaned forward and kissed him gently.

"Does this mean I am forgiven?" he asked against her lips. "I've no past history of 'making up' with someone, as John put it, I'm afraid the social conduct is lost on me."

"I dunno," she said slowly. "You've been pretty awful. You might need to be punished a bit more… I think I have the proper tools for that upstairs…"

His eyes shot up to hers and she saw the leap of his pulse below the skin in his neck.

Sherlock was fairly certain he'd never had proper appreciation for what a pair of handcuffs and a riding crop were truly capable of until that night.

* * *

They had meant to keep things discreet for while.

It was her own fault, really, that it didn't happen that way. Working an evening shift while he was on a case, she wore the perfume she knew he like, plaited her hair to the side in the style he'd enjoyed tugging at, wore the white blouse that hinted at the lace bra beneath. She may as well have sprayed pheromones all over as she passed him in the hall, sparing a coy smile as he followed Lestrade to some other part of the hospital. Ten minutes later, he found her outside the morgue and dragged her in and because he was Sherlock and she would never in her life be able to resist the fact that he wanted  _her_ , she didn't protest when he kissed her and walked her back into one of the tables. With his help, she hopped onto the metal surface and instinctually cradled his hips between her legs, hands slipping under the smooth fabric of his blazer. Her lab coat was off her shoulders before she could even register what was happening, her mind otherwise occupied with the feeling of his lips on her neck.

The door flying open nearly gave them both whiplash in their haste to see who it was. Lestrade stared at them with his jaw on the floor.

"Not my circus, not my monkeys," he cried, throwing his hands up in the air as he made an about face and rushed from the room.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Bit not good," he said as he looked at her with mischievous smirk.

"And for once, Sherlock, it would be wise to  _not_  correct the behavior…"


End file.
